


The Train

by CariZee



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Magic, Mystery, Steampunk, Thaumaturgy, all on a train, alternate history Europe, plus a hint of rebellion, pre-WW1, romance (but just barely)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 17:17:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7627132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CariZee/pseuds/CariZee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anton Seiber simply wanted to get to Zürich, where his studies in thaumaturgy could continue in peace. So he might have accidentally ended up impersonating a royal consul, sneaking aboard a forbidden train and bargaining for his life with the one man who's seen through his ruse, a powerful crown investigator named Camille Lumière! People have done worse for worse things, right? Right? He'll be fine!</p><p>As long as he survives the next three days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is barely edited and un-betad. There are mistakes. I know. I'm sorry, but I'd rather get it up than go through it with a fine tooth comb right now. It's the first in a series--now I just have to write the rest of them!

The trouble all started at the train station. Rather, it started with the train itself.

Well, strictly speaking, that wasn’t true. And Anton Seiber, as a journeyman thaumaturge possessed of a letter of acceptance to the Masters of Thaumaturgy program at the prestigious Universität Zürich, should know better than to allow himself to indulge in generalizations. Specificity was the cornerstone of reputable, repeatable thaumaturgy, and if he was going to do anywhere near as well at his chosen profession as his father had, he was going to have to cultivate a more nuanced outlook of the world. The trouble, _his_ trouble, had not begun with this _bloody_ train. But staring at it now, sitting on sparkling tracks beside a secured platform that might as well be miles away from Anton rather than yards, it was difficult not to be a bit spiteful about it.

Anton had had tickets for the train from Paris to Zürich, the _last_ train from Paris to Zürich that could get him to the university before the first day of classes. A series of mishaps on the trip over from London—Anton winced and adjusted his stance at the stab of pain in his side, hearing the broken glasswork in his holdall rustle accusatorily—had resulted in a delay, but it shouldn’t have mattered.

It shouldn’t have _mattered_ , for Paris was never meant to be more than a waystation, a place he might wile away a day or two before he left for Zürich, but no more than that. His mother had procured him this train ticket, at great expense. Despite everything, despite the aches and pains and inconvenient blood stains and the loss of far too much of his personal laboratory equipment, he had made it. He’d _made_ it all the way here, and now he was to be shoved aside for one of Bonaparte’s royal lackeys. Worse still, there was no way to procure a new ticket on another train, and he couldn’t afford a ride in one of those newfangled auto-carriages. Not even as far as the border of Switzerland, much less all the way to Zürich.

“Doctor Grable is a great thaumaturge,” his mother had told Anton the night before he left, “but he is a difficult man. He places enormous value on punctuality and propriety, and has dismissed students from his program before for rather innocuous offenses. You cannot afford to be late, Anton.” This was the maxim she’d been drilling into his head ever since he was accepted to the university’s alchemical thaumaturgy program. “For if he dismisses _you_ , there are a hundred other scholarship applicants vying to take your place.”

“I won’t be late, Mother,” he’d assured her, so full of himself in his final hours at home. He had lived there almost all his life, watched it gradually fall into a slow decay after his father’s death, with no money to be spared on repairs. He had clawed and fought his way to a position in Oxford’s apprentice thaumaturge program, his place far from guaranteed despite his father’s illustrious career there. He had graduated at the top of his class, confident in his skills and his chances for a position in London, only to see them melt away into the hands of other, lesser graduates, people of smaller minds but greater status.

It had been a learning experience. A hard one, but one that had provided a fire of purpose that set his mind ablaze. He had taken a lesser position with a minor forensic researcher specializing in death miasmas. Anton had designed a spell that not only let a layperson see the aura of the previously deceased in the moment of their death, but whatever lingering auras remained of his surroundings as well. As far as practical theses went, it was impressive. Impressive enough to land him the scholarship in Zürich. But he had to _get_ there before anything was assured.

His head ached. Anton wasn’t sure whether it was from anger or from the way the back of his skull had been knocked against the cobblestones of a dirty alley just off the Champs Elysees, but either way, it was getting worse. He’d come so close. So _close_ , only to find that his train had been diverted for this candy apple, steam-powered monstrosity. It was a beautiful train, actually, with crystal clear windows and bright, shining red enamel stretching down the length of it. It looked like an artery, bright and healthy, ready to carry its passengers from the heart of Napoleon III’s empire out to one of its distant limbs. The train’s final destination was Lucerne, where a royal alliance for one of Bonaparte’s cousins waited with the recently-widowed Duchess of that selfsame canton.

The cousin in question, a viscount or some such nonsense, was in the middle of a throng of brightly-colored courtiers, the men all dandy in frock coats and top hats, the women resplendent but slow-moving in waist-defining corsets and layers of petticoats. At their edges were lines of unobtrusive servants moving baggage onto the train, and beyond them, the people who did the actual work for the lordling: his advisory staff, all wearing the royal crest somewhere on their clothes and all far more serious than the flock of fine society. Guards checked the ticket and identification of every person who approached the platform, and more than one curious onlooker was menaced with the business end of a saber for venturing too close.

Anton had been displaced for a popinjay. A royal sycophant, a—a toff _toad_ amidst a bloody puddle of toads! This was who he was losing his livelihood, his future, for? This back end of a donkey who just happened to be related to the most powerful man on the continent? Of course it was. Of course, because there was no one to say otherwise.

Well, no. There was _Anton_ , damn it, and he was going to be on that train whether he had to beg, borrow or steal his way aboard. There were things in his holdall he could use if all else came to naught—things that those swaggering thugs hadn’t thought to destroy, too tough or too innocuous looking to be of any interest to them. He might have to fudge a few of the finer details, but—

God in Heaven, his head was aching now. It was never a good idea to do magic with anything other than a clear mind. Perhaps it was worth another argument at the ticket counter before resorting to fresh spell work. Fortunately, his father’s Device was still working perfectly.

It was far from unheard of for a gentleman to carry a token of his lady’s affection on his person: a handkerchief, a twist of hair inside a silver locket or set in a ring. An earring was perhaps a bit unusual, but it was a plain thing, a simple silver clasp that fit perfectly around Anton’s left lobe. Someone looking at it might assume that the other half of the pair resided in the jewelry case of the young lady it came from.

In reality, the second half of the pair was a slender, flexible silver disc that fit over the soft palate of the mouth. The Translation Device was one of Gerhardt Seiber’s finer engineering feats, the result of long nights working out theory with his linguist wife, who spoke seven languages fluently. It used complex thaumaturgical equations to enable someone ignorant of the language at hand to hear what was being said, and perceive it as being said in their native tongue. Only in general terms, unfortunately, but it was far better than nothing. In turn, the silver receptor plate within the mouth provided a translation effect for whatever the wearer said. Speaking with it had occasionally nearly tied Anton’s tongue in a knot, but he couldn’t imagine learning French would be any easier at this point. He hadn’t the time. _Literally_ , he hadn’t the time: the crowd was beginning to move onto the train. If he did not act quickly, he would lose his chance.

Anton narrowed his eyes and turned resolutely toward the ticket counter. By God, he would make the man see sense, or—“ _Oof!_ ” He was suddenly almost knocked off his feet by a tall man in a dark brown coat, whose shoulder had very firmly found its way into Anton’s.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” the man said graciously. “I should have been more careful.”

Anton would have liked to absolve him, but the action had knocked his careful physical equilibrium out of place. A sharp pain lanced through his skull and somehow ended up lodged in his side, where someone’s solid boot had made itself known. “Ah—huuuh,” he gasped, nearly bent in two.

“Are you quite all right?”

“Ye—yes, quite,” Anton managed. The last thing he needed right now was pity, from anyone other than the ticket clerk at least. “Thank you.”

“Only you seem rather unwell.”

“’Tis nothing,” Anton insisted. “I just need a moment to catch my breath.”

“Then at least do so where another clumsy oaf like me cannot knock you down.” A warm hand found its way to his elbow and guided him gently through the crowd to the side of the train station. Anton leaned against the smooth stone and closed his eyes as he sorted the pain away, back to where he could function.

“I would stay to ensure your comfort, but my train is about to leave.” The man had a pleasant voice, his English crisp and nearly without accent. “Again, I beg your pardon for my haste.”

“I’ll be well momentarily,” Anton assured the fellow, his eyes still shut but his posture slowly recovering. “Please, don’t let me keep you.” The man turned slowly and began to walk away. By the time Anton opened his eyes, he could no longer distinguish the cause of his little mishap. He straightened his back and began to head for the ticket counter—but no. The window was closed. All of the windows were closed, their inhabitants leaving to watch the pretty red train ride off with its pretty cargo. Anton stared at the shuttered window for a long moment, then gritted his teeth and reached for the clasp of his holdall. Right, he didn’t want to do this and his brains might be coming out his ears by the end of it, but surely he had enough energy for a minor obfuscation. All he needed was a place to work it, and the strength to push his way through the crowd to the train before it left.

A place, a quiet place—not easy to find in this crowd, but—there. The tiny little inlet beside the ticket booths, dark and uncomfortably like the last alley Anton had had such terrible luck in. It didn’t matter. He pushed the memory of his assault back and stepped as briskly as he could manage into the tight, dark space. A few yards more and he would have enough privacy for five minutes of—but wait. No, someone else was back here.

Anton stopped when he heard the sounds of a man in violent distress coming from further down the narrow corridor. Not the sound of an attack: Anton was well acquainted with those. This was a man who sounded terribly ill. As much as Anton needed to get on that train, he couldn’t stop himself from following that sound, just to ensure that the person in question wasn’t on the brink of death.

What he saw froze him in his tracks.

At the far end of the alley, where little light could penetrate the high stone walls, a man stood bent over at the waist. One pale, trembling hand was pressed to the wall, practically all that was keeping him upright, for Anton could see his knees knocking from where he stood. He was retching with a vigor that defied his body’s ability to produce relief, and seemed not to notice Anton’s hesitant appearance several yards away.

It wasn’t the man’s illness that was so arresting to Anton. While the compassionate side of him sympathized with a fellow’s plight, he had no skill with physicking. Having ascertained that the man was not dying but did need help, the next logical step would have been to direct someone with more authority to assist down the alley. But this man represented more than a chance to do some little good; he represented a chance for Anton to help himself, and in doing so commit a crime he would never have considered at any other time. For this man, this sick, pasty man who was in no way fit to be going anywhere but a bed, wore a black frock coat with the insignia of the Bonapartes on his left breast pocket: _a_ _zure an imperial eagle or_ , the imperial eagle on a bright blue background.

He was a member of the viscount’s staff. He wore the insignia that would grant Anton the status to board the train. And as there was no way that he was going to be able to board it himself…

It wasn’t really _stealing_ , Anton argued with himself as he gingerly made his way down the alley, avoiding the puddles of sick that his target had voided earlier in his rush for privacy. It wasn’t! It was borrowing in a permanent way, perhaps, but the overall good that would be accomplished for both of them was worth bearing the inconvenient ethical dilemma.

 _Bold, foolish Anton_ , he almost heard Caroline whisper mockingly in his ear. _How comfortable you must be, to have such flexible morals. Beware that your actions don’t come back to bite you._

Nonsense. Anton gritted his teeth and pressed on. Lady Caroline’s pithy wit might occasionally haunt him at times, but she had never understood where he was coming from. She didn’t know what it was to be thrown down from a great height and trampled under the feet of those whom you had once called peers. She didn’t understand the sacrifices he and his mother had made to get him this far. He _had_ to act.

First he had to get close enough to the man for him to take notice. “Sir?” Anton asked, carefully bending over next to the wretched fellow. The smell was almost overpowering, but he persevered.

“Geh…awauhhh…” The man could barely draw breaths between bouts of purging.

“Sir, you should sit down, you’ll strain yourself otherwise.” Anton took his arm and led the not-really-protesting man over to a wooden crate along the far wall that smelled of paper and, more faintly, rotten vegetables. “And you must be hot,” he continued, resisting the urge to bite his lip. “Let me help you take this coat off.”

“Yuh… _you_ …”

“There, sir, there. Just one moment and you’ll be much more―” Anton’s voice cut off abruptly as he caught sight of the edge of a blade cutting straight up. He fell back―almost literally, his ribs paining him as he forced himself away from the man just as he lunged at Anton. It was a desperate maneuver, and one his attacker didn’t have the strength to carry off. Rather than extending his long body to reach Anton, he ended up curling over his doubtlessly aching abdomen and falling chin-first onto the cobblestones.

Honestly, was he wearing a special sigil that advertised his excellence as a target of violence? That the fellow Anton had intended to assist—and, fine, _rob_ as well, but that was neither here nor there—had just tried to assault him was disturbing enough, but then… The blood seeping out from beneath the man’s body startled Anton into movement. He leaned down and rolled the fellow over, wincing when he saw the hilt of the man’s blade protruding from just beneath his sternum.

Oh no. No, that was just… _ridiculous_ , was what that was. If Anton hadn’t been so desperate to breathe shallowly and avoid fainting, he would have scoffed. Disregarding the fact that he’d done nothing to warrant such an attack, the idea that the man would then fall fatally prey to his own weapon simply because of a stumble? Inconceivable. Anton reached for the man’s neck, testing for a pulse, but there was nothing. He had died within twenty second of being stabbed? Not just inconceivable: that was impossible.

Aware of the foolhardiness of his situation but compelled by his own damnable curiosity, Anton crouched down next to the corpse and examined the hilt of the blade. It was black, just long enough for a man’s hand to get around. The handle wasn’t glossy like jet or obsidian; rather it seemed to absorb light into it and reflect a mere fraction back again.

 Anton turned and opened his holdall, avoiding the shards of glass and pulling out a slender silver wand with an empty socket where the tip should be. Anton opened the side pocket that held his blank quartz endcaps and screwed one carefully into position. He activated it with a simple incantation to the four elements; for a greater spell he would need to utilize the elements themselves, but he had already primed his personal store of endcaps with alchemical potential. The quartz gleamed bright in the dimness for a moment, and then went dull again. Perfect. Anton reached down and carefully touched the very tip of the wand to the tripartite end of the hilt.

 _Crack_. The quartz endcap splintered into a hundred tiny pieces, falling apart at Anton’s feet. He stared at it blankly for a moment. “Thank goodness it didn’t explode,” he murmured. This knife, then, was something rather special. Something steeped in spells so dark they reflected in its very surface; a knife that had just killed its bearer, which surely hadn’t been the intent of the man impaled by it. This was not a knife that should be left lying around where anyone might find it. Anton would take it and do some tests.

The piercing whistle of the train broke through his reverie. Good God, how long had he spent in contemplation of this uncanny corpse? There was no time to waste.

Getting the coat off the man wasn’t as difficult as Anton had feared. It wasn’t exactly _clean_ , but he would take the time to clean it once he was safely aboard. He rifled through the man’s pockets and found his passport, badge of identification, and a wallet which contained bank notes for a rather alarming number of francs. Anton grimaced, but took it all, and swore a silent prayer that he would donate the money to a shrine for St. Dunstan, patron saint of alchemists, as soon as he reached Zürich.

He also located the knife’s sheath in a hidden pocket along the top of the man’s right boot. Anton tugged it free, and then, using the fellow’s own burgundy-colored ascot to protect his hand, jerked the knife out of his body. It came without any resistance, the short blade seemingly untouched by the bloody mess it had just been removed from. Anton shuddered slightly as he sheathed the weapon and placed it within his holdall.

He stood up and put on the jacket, still warm from the man’s slowly dissipating body heat. Anton inspected himself briefly. He was wearing his second-best vest, fresh white cuffs and collar and a pair of boots that, if not exactly modern, at least shined to his satisfaction. The true giveaway was the simple bowler hat atop his head, already a bit crumpled from its earlier interaction with the ground. He needed a top hat. He did not have one. Therefore, he would bluff until he could acquire one. Anton stuffed the bowler hat in his holdall, carefully tousled his own hair to avoid the wound at the back of his head, and then headed out of the alley and into the light.

The steward was closing the doors of the train. Anton raced over to him, shouting in an effort to be heard over the piercing whistle: “Stop! Stop that at once!”

The steward turned to face him, his heavy moustache bristling indignantly. “What’s the meaning of this delay?” he demanded.

“The _meaning_ , man, is that I should be on this train and you are in the process of thwarting me, and therefore thwarting his Lordship,” Anton said haughtily.

“You, sir?” The steward cast an assessing eye over his form and clearly found him wanting, if the condescending curl of his lip was anything to go by. “Your papers?”

Anton winnowed through the stack of papers he’d taken off his attacker until he found both the ticket and the passport. He held them out for inspection. The steward lingered for some time before he begrudgingly lifted his head. “Very well, Consul Hasler.” He reopened the red glass door. “I would show you to your car, sir, but time is of the essence,” he said pointedly. “Have a good journey.”

Anton said nothing, just nodded and stepped up into the train. The door smacked shut behind him, and only moments later the train began to move. The whistle sounded far less piercing from inside.

Well, there. He was aboard the train that would take him to Zürich. Now he simply had to figure out who he was, where he needed to go and what he needed to do in order to avoid being ejected and arrested.

The next several days would doubtless prove...challenging.


	2. Chapter 2

It didn’t take too much investigation for Anton to figure out which way he should be going. His berth was in Sleeping Car Four, Cabin One, Upper Bunk. It was, according to the ticket, located right next to the washroom at the end of the car, had its own small sink that would apparently run with hot water for a fifteen-minute period each morning and evening, and was “amply appointed both for comfort and entertainment.” If that meant there would be enough room in the cabin for Anton to use to avoid interacting with his berth-mate, he was all for the ridiculous level of luxury.

The train was completely done in the “vestibule” style, enclosed on all sides, with a diminutive hallway down the center of each car that one could use to travel along. Anton clutched his holdall a bit closer to himself as he made his way to Sleeping Car Four, which was five cars back from where he had boarded. He had worried about the potential of being accosted by someone who should know him, or rather, know Consul Hasler, but fortunately spirits were too high as the train began to depart from the platform to pay him any heed. Passengers waved gaily from the windows out at the avid Parisian crowd, which had finally been allowed to gather and take a closer look now that they were leaving. Anton wondered for a moment if the increase in traffic meant that his attacker was ever-more-likely to be found, and pressed his lips together tightly. He wouldn’t rest easy until this train was well on its way.

Likely he wouldn’t rest easy regardless, not until he was safe in Zürich. It would be better for his state of mind if he did not borrow trouble before then, however.

Finally Anton reached Sleeping Car Four, and tentatively opened the door. The cabin was empty, and Anton gusted a sigh of utter relief. He shut the door behind him and leaned back against it, wishing there were a key he could turn that would make the illusion of privacy more real. As it was, he forced himself to keep moving, rather than giving in to the impulse to pull down his bunk and take a well-deserved rest on it.

But, ah—his bunk was already pulled down. A brown leather valise sat atop it, appearing undisturbed. Anton set his holdall on the elaborately-tooled leather chair in the cabin’s corner, and then reached for the valise. It was heavier than he’d expected, and the brass fittings atop it were more than decorative closures; they were equipped with a serious lock.

Anton sighed. He might have expected that, given that the man whose role he was assuming had recently tried to murder him with a very magical knife. One probably didn’t have much luck remaining a top-secret assassin if one wasn’t prepared to be, well, _secretive._

“Right, then.” There were ways of getting past a lock, and given that Anton had no idea who he was supposed to be beyond a name, he _needed_ to get past it. He leaned in close and inspected it. Brass was a transmutable metal, an alchemically hot metal, and metaphysically speaking it was easy to produce a simple reaction with it. Anton considered for a moment, then reached for his holdall. He would need his chalk.

In theory, there was no need for the actual symbols when it came to the practical side of alchemy. While they were useful in establishing the pattern of what element was placed where, what thaumaturgical equations might apply to the given situation, and what ritual was necessary for the desired result, technically speaking, they were merely a prop.

 _Practically_ speaking, the symbols were a prop in the same way that a blueprint was a prop to an architect. Certainly, Buckingham Palace could have been built without one, but the servants quarters would probably have ended attached to the Queen’s privy if they hadn’t.

Anton was no artist, but he had adapted to the necessity of accuracy early in his life. The slender chalk circle outlining the lock at the top of the bag was perfectly equidistant on all sides, angled leather surface notwithstanding. Anton’s father had made him learn to draw perfect circles on molten glass; he could _certainly_ handle this. On one side of the circle he drew he symbol for zinc; on the other, copper. It was the most potent approximation of brass currently available to a practicing thaumaturge, although Caroline was working on correcting that. His best friend might be a theorist rather than a practitioner, but she was determined to drag alchemical symbolism into the new century, and that meant adapting it to alloys rather than working around them.

Anton shut his eyes and wished, not for the first time, that he had some way of contacting her. Caroline’s recent marriage had taken her from London to Edinburgh, where her new husband was originally from. As the only children of two of England’s most notable thaumaturges, their fathers’ professional and personal proximities had naturally led to a certain closeness between their families. Being two years apart in age had been like nothing―they had played together, fought together and been educated together almost their lives, largely because it had taken some work on Caroline’s father’s part to secure a place for his daughter in a school of distinction. Caroline was easily as smart as Anton, though, and she had proven it time and again by ranking first among their peers after every examination.

Anton took out his magnifying loup, fixed it to his eye and examined the lock more closely. Oh…Caroline would have _loved_ this. The work was simple but elegant, the body of the spell worked into the very teeth of the mechanism that held the valise closed. A variant of fire—lightning, perhaps? Rather shocking, in any case. Possibly debilitating, and nothing that would be conquered with a key or combination. Without the right incantation, this lock would be a challenge to open. But its spell could be muted or even undone with a careful application of water, perhaps, and Anton had a source of that readily available. As long as he could manage the side-effects that would inevitably be caused by…

Wait.

Anton could almost _hear_ Caroline laughing at him. _What is the first rule of thaumaturgy?_

 _Evaluate whether or not it is actually_ necessary _to use thaumaturgy._ But surely whoever had designed this bag had been more thorough than _that_.

There was only one way to find out. Anton pushed up the loup, reached into his holdall and removed a lead-handled knife with a silver blade. It was next to useless for cutting, but it would keep the worst of the spell from affecting him. Holding his breath, Anton readied himself, then stuck the blade through the side of the valise. It slid in smoothly, nothing fighting its path but the natural toughness of the leather, and no defensive spell to speak of manifesting.

The _bloody_ fool hadn’t bothered to secure the soft, penetrable sides of his _bloody_ baggage. Perhaps dying on the tip of his own weapon had been a sadly inevitable, rather than horrifying, end for him. Anton rolled his eyes and cut until he could easily reach both hands into the valise.

Undergarments. Well used, but at least they were clean. Anton set them aside and kept feeling around. There were more clothes, but it wasn’t clothing he was interested in. He needed information: an example of the man’s correspondence, perhaps an idea of who he would be meeting with in the course of his duties on this trip, _anything_ that would make it feel less like Anton was floundering in the dark.

He pulled out a rather garish artificial fly in a box marked _Weber & Sons_—of interest to an angler, perhaps, but otherwise less than helpful right now. There was a copy of what seemed to be yesterday’s newspaper, the front page split between Napoleon the Third’s latest diplomatic conquests and unrest in the east. There was a little book of…Anton almost got dizzy looking at it. The type seemed to crawl on the page, one minute coalescing into recognizable letters, even if the words were foreign―unfortunately, his father’s translation Device included no visual component―and becoming a cipher of loops and lines the next.

There was no natural reason that he shouldn’t be able to focus on the page. Anton pulled his loup back down over his right eye and looked again. _Ahhh_ …there it was.

Not that the writing was intelligible; it was still in a language that Anton didn’t speak, but he could at least make out the true shape of the words now. This was a palimpsest. A _magical_ palimpsest.

It was a puzzle, and Anton adored puzzles. He wanted to pore over every page of it, but just then a polite knock sounded against the door. “Monsieur, the trainmaster requests your presence in the dining car for a brief explanation of amenities and expectations in five minutes.”

“I’ll be there,” Anton called out.

“Very good, Monsieur.” The man’s footsteps continued on, and now that Anton wasn’t so wrapped up in his own head he recognized the sound of many different footsteps, actually; an entire parade of people seemed to be making their way past his room, chatting and laughing and generally being merry. It was…quite irritating, actually. This was why Anton had always fought tooth and nail to get his own laboratory space; he was, at best, politely indifferent to his fellow researchers and at worst, actively misanthropic. It was a defect of his character that a lifetime of Caroline and his mother’s fine examples hadn’t been able to cure.

Anton repacked the valise as best he could and lay it in a corner on the floor, transferring the palimpsest to a secure pocket of his holdall before tucking that away as well. He took a moment to examine himself in the mirror above the small but sumptuous marble sink against the wall.

He looked decidedly worse for wear. Anton kept his face shaved, a minor but continual remembrance for his father, who had done the same all his life. This habit, unfortunately, left him with no cover for the scrape that he couldn’t remember getting along the right side of his jaw. His dark stubble was just beginning to prick through his skin, and his hair was lank with sweat and possibly other fluids. His tired brown eyes were bloodshot, and his skin was decidedly sallow, appearing too thinly stretched over his cheekbones. It was not a good look.

On the other hand, the coat still appeared acceptable even if it was beginning to smell a bit ripe, and the hat was…better than his hair. Anton retied his ascot, straightened his coat, and headed out into the hall before he could give himself a chance to rethink his strategy.

Of course, it was hard to rethink something that didn’t actually exist yet.

The dining car was an elegantly appointed room, with tables covered by white linen cloths lining the edges of the space, and red leather chairs taking up the center, which was mostly occupied at this point. Electric lights lit the arched ceiling, and the wainscoting beneath the windows was dark and sumptuous. A silent porter offered Anton a glass of champagne, which he took just as silently before settling himself into a back corner of the room. He didn’t wish to move forward and claim one of the remaining chairs and draw attention to himself. Not that he had much to worry about there; the room was filled with the lesser passengers on this illustrious trip, none of the nobility but every advisor and personal servant to the viscount and his coterie.

At the front of the room stood a tall man in a dark blue uniform, a flat trainmaster’s cap perched on his high forehead. He wore a thick, sandy handlebar moustache with panache, the one point of physical vanity on an otherwise unremarkable appearance. Of pride, however, his posture spoke volumes.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said once the flow of traffic had ceased and people were engaged more in drinking than talking. His voice was official without being officious, stentorian without being deafening; it was an easy voice to listen to. He’d likely practiced finding that fine line many, many times. “My name is Victor Cassan, your trainmaster for the duration of our three day voyage to Lucerne. Welcome aboard the Emperor’s Standard, the only train of its kind on the whole of the continent. Our luxury Pullman cars were shipped directly from America and modified by some of the most innovative thaumaturges in service to His Majesty.” _That_ got Anton’s attention, and he straightened his back, ignoring the twinge in his ribcage as he focused on the trainmaster’s speech.

“Every car of this train is equipped with a tank beneath the floor, heated by the same coal that provides our comfortable speed of fifteen kilometers per hour. Hot water circulates constantly through the radiators in each of your sleeping cars, adjustable for your comforts, of course. Your sink is equipped with a spell that sterilizes the water as it flows through the pipes, providing only the cleanest product to bathe and shave with. Our laundry service is continually at your disposal; simply press the button beside the door of your car, and a porter will be with you presently.”

 _Silver mesh_ , Anton thought absently to himself, still listening with one ear. _Powered by the coal; a simple enough spell of attraction to set in a device, fire signifying cleansing, silver immunity to poison and disease…they must have to be cleaned with terrible frequency, though._

Cassan continued blithely. “Meals will be served at eight, noon, and seven precisely. Each of our tables offers a privacy candelabrum for sensitive topics of discussion. You are welcome at any time to avail yourself of the smoking car, the lounge car, or the library car. The only exception to that freedom rests with Viscount Bonaparte, whose uses naturally take precedence. I understand that the viscount wishes to host all of you for an informal meeting after dinner tonight in the lounge car, so please be prepared to accommodate.

“Feel free to enjoy your drinks here, and don’t hesitate to ask for anything else that our barman might reasonably procure for you. Once again, welcome aboard the Emperor’s Standard.” Cassan inclined his head, and just like that, the brief bubble of silence broke and people were speaking to each other again, the servants clustering around the trainmaster and asking more questions about amenities, and the black coats…

They were speaking to each other, and unfortunately, one of them had spotted Anton. He was already on his way over, and there was no ready escape or excuse. Anton steeled himself and plastered on a ready expression.

“Willem Hasler, I presume?” the man asked as soon as he was within striking distance. Anton let a small sigh escape him; they had never met before. “I would know that insignia anywhere.” He had to be referring to the small red and blue flag beneath the imperial sigil on Anton’s jacket. “Well met, sir!” the man continued, his florid face beaming as he held out a hand. Anton smiled back and shook it. “You’re rather younger than I expected,” the nameless bureaucrat continued. “Looking at you, I’d scarcely believe you were old enough to see action during the Troubles.”

The Troubles, as those within the French empire referred to them, were a series of minor wars that had erupted across the continent a decade earlier. The timing and instigation of them was still something of a mystery, but the uprising had found a voice in the discontent of many of the native populations of Napoleon the Second’s latter conquests. The collectivist theories of Marx and Bakunin rose in esteem, leading to revolutionary ideas of equality between the classes. Former aristocrats and disenfranchised tradesmen alike had fought back against the Frenchmen installed in positions of authority in their cantons, leading to some very humiliating press for the emperor.

Napoleon III’s response had been swift and brutal. He’d sent troops into the capitol of each former nation and principality, their commanders given a mandate to utterly destroy all opposition. They had taken their savage responsibility seriously, and at the end of seven months, over half a million fighters, suspected fighters, outspoken politicians and their families and been put to death. Liechtenstein’s capitol of Vaduz, Anton remembered vaguely, had been one of the cities brought most thoroughly to bloody heel.

“It isn’t the sort of thing one lies about, sir,” he said, hoping his silence on the other man’s name wouldn’t go noticed.

Chance was with him, thus far at least. “No, of course not, of course,” the man agreed. “Indeed, I’ve had such assurances of your competence in all things, I would never dare underestimate you!”

 _Oh, good heavens._ What did this man think he knew about Willem Hasler? “You’re most kind, sir.”

“There’s no need for such formality between us, Willem.” The man leaned in closer. “Especially not when we’ve already given each other such assistance, eh? I’ve upheld my part of the bargain; here you stand, despite the short notice. Now.” He rubbed his hands together. “How about your part, my lad? After all—oh, how does the saying go in your part of the country?” He smiled brightly, and then said something that sounded like an incoherent string of syllables tacked together with tongue and spittle.

 _Oh, no._ Whatever this man was speaking, it wasn’t a dialect that the Translation Device could recognize. It was…possibly based in German, with a hint of French or…Flemish? Perhaps? Whatever it was, Anton couldn’t speak it. With the Device sitting heavy against his palate, striving to understand something that had it thoroughly confounded, Anton himself couldn’t force a word from his mouth. This had only happened once before, when he and Caroline had tested the Device with Gaelic and Anton had spouted gibberish in response for a full minute. At the time, it had been amusing. Right now, it was nowhere close.

The man’s open, friendly demeanor was beginning to close off. “Consul Hasler?” he asked more formally, with a bit of frost in his one.

Anton tried to respond, but the Device hadn’t sorted out its difficulty yet, and all that came from his lips was a low hum. The other man’s frost was beginning to transition to contempt. “Sir, I _must_ say—”

“Consul Olivier,” a fresh voice broke in, warm but slightly condescending. It sounded slightly familiar to Anton, and curiosity warred with relief as he turned to face the newcomer. “You must forgive Consul Hasler for being a bit taken aback by your…more spirited than accurate attempt at Walliser.”

Consul Olivier—it was so good to have a name for the man at last—deflated a bit. “Ah. Lord Lumière. I didn’t know you were a part of this trip.”

“I go wherever His Majesty wishes me to be.” Lord Lumière was a tall man made even taller by his silk top hat. His frock coat was a deep navy blue, his ascot and waistcoat were sapphire, and he should, by very dint of his size and handsome fashion, have stood out in the crowd. Yet somehow, even though he was standing right there, Anton felt that if he looked away he might miss him entirely.

“So you do.” The consul licked his lips nervously. “So you do. Well, sir, I…ah.” He looked back at Anton. “Forgive me any impertinence, Consul, it was entirely accidental. I was assured that I had the phrase correct.”

“It’s perfectly all right, Consul Olivier.” The words flowed easily off Anton’s tongue, and the tension in his throat melted away. “You just surprised me.”

“My apologies. But you—you did bring it, didn’t you?” He leaned in a bit closer. “You did promise that you would.”

 _Bring what?_ “Of course I did,” Anton said, utterly unsure of what he was committing himself to having but unable to see a way out of it.

“Ah!” Consul Olivier’s expression brightened again. “Wonderful! Bring it with you to dinner tonight, won’t you? I’m eager to see what kind of cock hackle could land a benthic beast like the one you described to me in your letter.”

For a moment, Anton wondered whether the Translation Device was malfunctioning again. Fortunately, Lord Lumière stepped in again. “If you don’t mind excusing us, Olivier, I have a pressing bit of business to conduct with Consul Hasler.” He turned to look at Anton, his dark eyes shining brightly beneath the brim of his hat. “Perhaps in our sleeping car.”

Anton swallowed. “You’re sharing with me?”

“I am if you’re in Sleeping Car Four, Cabin One.” Consul Olivier wandered away, leaving Anton without conversational recourse. This man had business with him? This…strange man, who seemed to have an even stranger effect on the people around him? Because Anton noticed the way that no one was quite looking at them, as though both of them had been obscured somehow. Thaumaturgy? An obfuscation device?

Whatever it was, and whatever the man needed, he obviously wanted to bring it up in private. And he _had_ gone to the trouble of rescuing Anton from a linguistic nightmare. Perhaps it would be something simple.

Lord Lumière’s pleasant voice interrupted Anton’s rumination. “Shall we, Consul?” He indicated the path toward the door with an outstretched hand.

“Of course.” Anton set his champagne flute down on the closest polished windowsill, then led the way down the hallway back to their car. It was a much easier trip with the crowd behind him, and he breathed easier with each step, his anxiety diminishing to almost normal levels once he finally opened their cabin door and stepped inside.

That anxiety spiked dramatically when Anton felt the sharp point of a knife dig ever-so-slightly into the skin just above his kidney. “Now, sir,” Lord Lumière murmured as the door of their cabin swung shut. “You will explain to me who you truly are and what business you have on this train, or I will ensure that ‘Consul Hasler’ is never seen or heard from again.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

Anton was briefly tempted to plead ignorance, but the insistence prick of the blade at his back warned him against it. He was already made. There was no sense in pretending any longer. At least, not to this man in particular. That didn’t mean he was _finished,_ though. He simply had to make the man see reason, and to do that, Anton needed to satisfy his curiosity.

And so, in line with his better judgement but hardly easier because of that, he spoke the truth. “My name is Anton Seiber. I’m a journeyman thaumaturge from England traveling to Zürich for the new term, to study at the university there. My business on this train is simple necessity, no more. It’s my only way of getting to Zürich on time.”

The knife didn’t go away, but neither did it penetrate further. Anton decided to consider that with cautious optimism while he waited for Lord Lumière to speak further.

“What happened to the actual Consul Hasler?”

“Ah.” The desire to prevaricate was so strong that Anton had to bite his lip for a moment. “When I found him he was…inconvenienced. I meant to offer him help, and things got rather out of hand after that.”

“Elaborate.”

“Might I do it face to face?” Anton asked. “I’m no threat to you, I promise.”

“That is true, although not for the reasons you think,” the man said cryptically. “But I believe I’d rather have my curiosity satisfied first. What happened when you found Consul Hasler?”

Anton took a deep breath. “He was ill,” he began. “At first I meant only to offer him my assistance. After I ascertained that he was in possession of a ticket for this train, I…I felt that since he clearly was unfit to carry out his duties, that I would…endeavor to carry them out for him.”

A low chuckle curled through the space between them, its timbre so resonant that Anton could almost feel it against the skin on the back of his neck. “That is the most honorable interpretation of a mugging that I have ever heard.”

“I did not _mug_ that man,” Anton snapped. “I was the victim of a mugging not two hours before I met him; I _know_ what that feels like. He wouldn’t even let me lead him over to a place to sit down before he tried to kill me.” The pressure of the blade suddenly dug in sharper, and Anton’s spine stiffened so quickly he thought it might snap.

“Why did he try to kill you?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea!” The attack bothered Anton more than he felt it should, considering what had become of the late Consul Hasler. But while Anton might, just might, have the makings of a thief and a liar lurking in the depths of his heart, he was no killer. The idea that he had done something, with his few words and simple attentions, to make this person try to dispatch him was incredibly unnerving.

“Perhaps because he was a murderous fiend equipped with a magical knife?” Anton continued recklessly. His hands were shaking, but he couldn’t settle enough to stop them. “A magical knife which _killed_ him, I might add. He lunged for me and missed and fell on his own knife, and that it God’s own truth, I swear it. I did not kill him. I don’t have the temperament for that sort of thing, although,” he sighed now. “This is the third time today someone has pulled a knife on me, so perhaps I attract such people.”

Astonishingly, this seemed to be enough to somehow exonerate him in Lord Lumière’s eyes; at least enough that the sharp point vanished. “You have, indeed, had a most trying day,” the man said. “Do turn around, Mr. Seiber. I doubt I’m going to have to ‘dispatch’ you at this point. We might as well be a bit more comfortable while we continue our discussion. Perhaps you should take something for that headache of yours?” Lord Lumière’s hands were empty as he stepped around Anton and over to his bunk, where he began to pull off his thin leather gloves.

Anton stared at his cabin mate and erstwhile assailant, aware that he was gaping but unable to quite stop. “How do you know I have a headache?”

“Oh, the line between your brows, the way you hold your shoulders, the color of your lips.” Lord Lumière shrugged. “Also, I do recall your moment of indisposition outside the platform earlier today. It stands to reason that you would still be feeling a bit…” He considered for a moment. “Fragile.”

If Anton’s head had felt less like an egg with cracks all through its shell, he would have objected to that term. As it was, he had bigger things to consider. “That—that was you, the man who ran into me. I _thought_ I recognized your voice!”

“My apology was meant most sincerely,” Lord Lumière said, a faint smile appearing on his thin lips. “In my defense, I was in quite a hurry.”

“Why?”

“Because I had a train to catch.” He took off his top hat and sat gracefully at the edge of his bed. “I had also just rendered a murderous fiend unfit for his work, and I wished to distance myself from him as quickly as possible.”

Anton frowned. “How did you know what Consul Hasler’s intentions were? Are you an investigator?”

“Of sorts. I’m a Lumière, after all.” He paused, as if waiting for Anton to comment. Clearly there was something he was missing here, some thread he hadn’t caught.

“And…what is a Lumière?” he asked at last.

“I’d have thought you’d know, given your remarkable facility with languages. Or is your device not translating the title correctly?”

Was it possible to be more dumbstruck than he already was? Anton felt as though he were teetering on the edge of a massive crevice, and one more revelation would send him reeling into a place where even the brightest light wouldn’t be able to drag him out again. “How do you know about the Device?” he asked as calmly as possible.

“I knew from the moment I first heard you speak.” Lord Lumière’s voice was unaccountably gentle. “You have a slight lisp that you’re doing nothing to compensate for, the result of an unfamiliar weight against your hard palate. You wear a single earring, not exactly the fashion for anyone not a sailor. Not to mention, your accent is wholly English despite your facility with French, which no one would advertise in Paris unless they had no other choice. That coupled with your obvious heritage, not to mention the challenge you faced by someone speaking in a language with which you were unfamiliar, could only lead to one conclusion.”

“But there is only one such Device! How would you know to expect it?”

“There is more than one way to make a translation device. Your father’s research has been shared around the civilized world by this point,” Lord Lumière explained, and Anton shut his eyes for a moment. “It’s kept very quiet, of course, patent laws being what they are. But yours is the original, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Anton whispered.

“It isn’t obvious,” the other man added, an unexpected effort to comfort that Anton appreciated. “Only to someone who’s seen such things before.”

Anton opened his eyes and made an effort to return his focus to the present. He couldn’t think about his father right now, or the fate of his monumental efforts in thaumaturgy, so much genius distilled into…no, he would not think of it now. “You’ve seen such things before? Where? How?”

“I’ve seen much in the course of my duties.”

“Which are what?” Anton demanded. “What is a Lumière? What _are_ you?”

“Lumières are servants of the Emperor, extensions of his will. We shine lights on the dark parts of the empire, those places that many would prefer to leave unrevealed. I work to ensure the sovereignty of our leader and the health of our empire. At times, that means working as an investigator to uncover plotters and malcontents.”

“What else?”

The man spread his hands. “What more are you expecting?”

“Magic,” Anton said flatly. “You must be very adept at magic, to recognize my Device. A master thaumaturge, I expect.”

Lord Lumière shook his head. “Not at all. I can’t even work the simplest fire spell.”

_Wait…_ “But you made Consul Hasler sick…”

“That was the result of a fast-acting emetic, not magic.”

“But—” Anton waved a hand at him. “You’re wearing some sort of obfuscation device, or a spell, or _something_. You’re terribly hard to focus on, and I saw other people look right past you as though you weren’t there.”

“Ah.” Lord Lumière actually looked a bit uncomfortable now. “It’s…not exactly a spell.”

“What is it, then?”

“I’ll explain later, if it becomes relevant. For now, you need to tell me how you plan to continue your charade as Consul Hasler, and why I should help you do it.”

And they were back to negotiations. Good, Anton could work with that. “Well, clearly your work isn’t done, even though you got Consul Hasler out of the way. Therefore you’re expecting something to happen on this train between now and Lucerne. I’m experienced in all basic forensic thaumaturgy spells, and I’m adept at adapting them to new situations. If you don’t do magic, as you say, then I might be helpful if a situation arises where you need a thaumaturge’s expertise.”

“Go on.”

“It’s less disruptive for everyone to continue thinking of me as Consul Hasler, so as to prevent them from changing their plans if, in fact, someone is plotting to commit a crime aboard the train. Why risk it?”

Lord Lumière smiled. “Why indeed?”

“Exactly. Also…” Anton didn’t think this man would be moved by compassion, but it didn’t hurt to try. “If I don’t make it to the university by the start of the term, I will lose my scholarship and my position there. This is, in fact, my only chance.”

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, Lord Lumière considering, Anton strangely breathless. At last the man said, “You argue well in your favor. I accept your terms.”

Anton scarcely had a chance to feel relieved before the man stood and loomed over him.

“With a few caveats of my own, that is.”

“What are your conditions?” Anton asked, keeping what he thought was an admirable outward calm, while inside his mind was racing. This man, this _lumière_ , held the literal power of life and death over him. If he reported Anton to the Viscount’s guards, Anton could count on being arrested. If he changed his mind and decided to dispatch Anton at any point of the journey, well, what could he do about that? They shared a room, and Lord Lumière had the Emperor’s blessing to act with near-impunity. All he needed was probable cause, and Anton’s life was forfeit.

_Be helpful. Be gracious. Charm him_ , he told himself. Anton had worked under enough powerful men that he knew how to soothe their egos. And, at times, his soothing had not stopped there. Anton’s genuine preference for his own sex, while not flaunted, was something he shared when he detected a mutual interest. The intimacy had never hurt him, and usually benefitted him. He resolutely refused to consider what his parents would have thought of him essentially whoring himself out for personal advancement, but such activity was safer when the other man had a higher position, and more to lose from a revelation.

Time would tell whether Lord Lumière was that sort of man; it was far too soon to say, and he was clever enough that Anton might never know. But he could not go wrong with remembering his manners.

“There are several: two minor, one major. First: you do what I ask of you, when I ask it, without complaint or question. I have no intention of using you for anything, but should the need arise I don’t want to waste time arguing. Two—”

“What if I find it morally objectionable?” Anton could have smacked himself for interrupting, but it was genuinely important to him.

Lord Lumière frowned. “Give me an example.”

“I would really rather not murder anyone.” Anton could defend himself when pressed—as he had been earlier in the day—but even then, he didn’t feel anything other than sick at the prospect of injuring another person. “Or harm them at all, unless we would otherwise lose our lives.”

“I think I can agree to that,” Lord Lumière said. “Anything else?”

Anton was sure there were other things, but perhaps he could bring them up later. “That’s the greatest of them. Please, proceed.”

The man smiled with just the corner of his mouth. “Very kind of you. The second minor caveat: you play your role to the hilt. If you are Consul Hasler, you are him continually, and our acquaintance must appear to be merely one of circumstance. That will not preclude your use of magic; Consul Hasler was known to be a thaumaturge, although his specialty was in designing and imbuing weaponry.”

_Oh, dear_. Then he’d likely been killed by his own knife. That was the worst, most shameful sort of end for any thaumaturge: to die caught in a spell of their own making. Many a good practitioner had lost their mind, their health and their life to a simple mistake, or attempting a spell that they weren’t properly prepared for. Anton bit his lip in sympathy.

“Are you well?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes,” he stammered after a moment. “Just thinking, that’s all. It’s nothing. What is the third thing?”

Lord Lumière clearly didn’t believe his attempt at levity, but he graciously let the odd moment pass. “The third, and major caveat: that you cast no spells on me, or use magical devices that directly affect my person, for any reason whatsoever.”

What a terribly odd request. Magic was…basic, a fundament of human existence. Priests worked magic, kings worked magic; everyone alive worked it, to some extent. Thaumaturges had discovered the _rules_ of magic, ways to preserve it, increase it, and direct it, and they had a natural talent for its use. But Anton had never heard of anyone flat-out denying it before. “Nothing?”

“Nothing,” Lord Lumière affirmed.

“What if it might save your life?”

“Not even then.”

Anton was utterly baffled. “Why on earth not?” Perhaps the man had an uncomfortable synaesthetic reaction to it? Such things were rare, but popped up on occasion. “Do you suffer from an allergy, or a phobia?”

“You’re rather blunt when in pursuit of knowledge, aren’t you, Mr. Seiber?”

That was _not_ an amused tone. And the way he said _Mr. Seiber_ let Anton know, unequivocally, that he was not in favor at the moment. He backtracked.

“It’s a bad habit of mine,” he explained, genuinely bashful but playing it up just a bit. “I apologize for overstepping the bounds of polite company. No spells, then. Done. And please,” he added, “call me Anton. At least when we’re in here. Mr. Seiber always makes me think of my father.” _And that isn’t such a bad thing_ , but Anton couldn’t allow melancholia to run off with him now. He needed to stay sharp.

Lord Lumière nodded. “We have an accord, then. And you may call me Camille, if it suits you. But only, as you say, in here.” It was a surprising offer of familiarity, and Anton gratefully accepted.

“So,” he said, mustering some enthusiasm. The ache in his head was finally abating, but the hunger pangs emanating from his stomach made up for it. He hadn’t eaten since early that morning, a pitiful, stale croissant and a cup of weak tea. “What now, Camille?”

Camille pulled a dark grey pocket watch from the front of his vest. The metal was silver, with some sort of engraving decorating the surface of it, but it was so heavily tarnished that Anton couldn’t make it out. The state of the watch was a strange non-sequitur, for a man who appeared to take fastidious care with his appearance. “Soon it will be time for dinner. I recommend you arrive a bit early, so as to pass off to Consul Olivier what he’s seeking.”

_Right._ “About that…” Anton paused. “Um. I’m not actually sure what he said, to be perfectly honest.”

Camille’s moustache twitched. Anton decided to ignore the fact that he was being quietly laughed at. After a moment, the man said, “Benthic refers to the very deepest area of a body of water, and a cock hackle likely indicates an item adorned with feathers from a cock. I assume it’s some sort of fishing equipment.”

“Oh, _that!_ ” Anton delved back into Consul Hasler’s valise and emerged with the elaborate fly. “I was wondering why he’d included this in there,” he said. “It didn’t seem to fit.”

“Seem to fit with what?”

“Oh, other paraphernalia more fitting of a political advisor,” Anton said blithely. That wasn’t _everything_ he’d found, of course—the palimpsest weighed on his mind, an energizing problem to be solved. He would tell Camille about it, of course he would, just…after he had discovered how to read it. If he couldn’t do so before they reached Zürich, he would hand it over with no regrets.

Well, hardly any regrets.

“Hmm.” Camille looked at him for a long moment, and then nodded his head. “Very well. You’d best head out; tonight we’ll be seated at different tables, but I’ll rectify that situation tomorrow, just in case either of us has need of the other. Don’t forget, you are Consul Hasler: a rural thaumaturge related to the Duke of Liechtenstein, who is barely interested in politics and prefers the natural world above all others. You are here because strings were pulled to facilitate the potential advancement of your immediate family. Do you know anything about fishing?”

“No,” Anton admitted. “Does punting count?”

“I’m afraid not.” Camille shrugged slightly. “Well, do your best.”

On that heartening note, Anton headed out into the hallway and down to the dining car. There was already a bit of a line, but he politely bumped and jostled his way through the crowd as only an Englishman could. Waiters were already passing around drinks, and Anton ordered a scotch and soda and vowed it would be the only one that he drank tonight. He needed to keep his wits about him.

Other passengers weren’t nearly so circumspect. The entire trip was being paid for by the crown, and so the bar was hit hard accordingly. By the time Anton’s tablemates joined him, including Consul Olivier, they were all pleasantly tipsy.

Consul Olivier leaned over Anton’s shoulder and in close to his face, bathing his skin with gin fumes. “Willem! Wonderful, here you are, wonderful!”

“Here I am,” Anton agreed, angling back just slightly. He had never been fond of gin.

“And you have something for me, no? You brought it with you, of course.”

“Oh, of course.” Anton flourished the box containing the fly, then handed it over to a grabby-handed Olivier, who took it with an expression of pure glee.

“Marvelous!” He glanced inside and practically danced a jig then and there. “Look at that beauty! It’s a winner, no mistake! Willem, dear Willem!” He practically fell against Anton in his hurry to embrace him. “You are a man of your word.”

Anton awkwardly patted his shoulder. “I do try.” He looked up to see Camille smirking at him from four tables away; he glared at him as best he could while trying to keep Consul Olivier on his feet. Eventually the man stood, and Anton indicated his seat. “Sit, and tell me about what you plan to catch with it.”

“Oh, sir, let me set the stage.” Conversation devolved into a lengthy diatribe on a mountain lake, home of a rare species of pike that was the “canniest freshwater fish on the continent,” and therefore absolutely had to be captured and killed. The rest of their table carried the conversation along, which gave Anton a useful reprieve, and he listened and absorbed as much of their conversation as he could while devouring his salad, onion soup, creamy chicken piccata and sponge cake with gusto.

None too soon, the Train Master entered the room and rang a small crystal bell. Conversation quickly ceased, and all eyes were on Monsieur Cassan.

“If you have all finished, then please: his lordship requests your presence in the lounge car.” He bowed, and people began to rise.

Anton pressed unsteadily to his feet. His nerves were back full force. If he were to be discovered, if the Viscount realized that something was wrong—

A moment later a warm shoulder pressed briefly against his own. Anton glanced gratefully at Camille, and kept close to him as they continued on to meet the Viscount.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The lounge car was decidedly atypical, to Anton’s mind. Then again, perhaps this was always what happened when nobility moved from place to place: they rearranged, redesigned, and casually appropriated whatever space they needed for their voyage. God knew it happened often enough in England, with Anton’s more illustrious Oxford fellows commandeering whatever they felt they needed, whenever they needed it, whether that meant study space in the most private spot in the library, or the best equipment laid out for apprentice thaumaturges to use during the laboratory sessions. Admittedly, most of them had had their own valises full of equipment at that point. Anton was one of the only students to need to use the school’s stores after the majority of his father’s personal equipment had been “appropriated” by the university.

Well, apparently arrogance bred true everywhere. The lounge car had been transformed into a monument to Viscount Bonaparte’s name and title, the walls covered by heavy cloths depicting the imperial emblem and holding in the heat. As more people filed into the room, the air quickly became stale and stuffy. The pervasive scent of pipe smoke made it even worse, giving rise to a haze that stung at Anton’s eyes and made him feel as though he needed to cough. He stifled a small wheeze into his hand, and raised one eyebrow as the motion caught Camille’s eye.

“Is it always like this around the Viscount?” Anton murmured as the two of them were pressed back against the wall, making room for more people. He hadn’t even caught sight of the noble himself yet, just seen two of his personal servants, a young man and woman in matching livery, hovering over a reclining couch along the far wall.

“This particular Lord Bonaparte has always excelled at making people aware of his connections,” Camille replied. He was not looking for the viscount; his eyes roved over everyone else in the room, seeming to note who was where in an instant. “This blend of tobacco is a favorite of the Emperor,” he continued. “Its use carries a certain cachet, and therefore all his extended family insists on smoking it as well. I personally don’t care for such a strong flavor, but each to his own.”

“Filthy habit, imbibing smoke,” Anton murmured.

“How so?”

Now it was Anton’s turn to cast an incredulous glance of superiority at his companion. He tried not to enjoy it too much. “Have you ever been to London? Walked through the smog there? I’ve seen the effect it has on the body, and willingly inviting such pollutants into your system is foolishness.”

“How have you seen such things?”

“I’m a forensic thaumaturge specializing in _death_ miasmas. You think I didn’t spend plenty of time in the city morgues?”

“Most interesting,” Camille said. He looked like he wanted to continue, but at that point, Viscount Bonaparte chose to rise from his couch and address the gathered throng.

He was…well, prepossessing wasn’t exactly the word. He had the look of a man who was trying with all his might to put his rank front and center, and it had to be said that title and rank were clearly the most remarkable things about the Viscount.  He was of average height, with curling, thin brown hair held back from his face by an elaborate hat. He held himself like a Bonaparte, insofar as he thrust his chest forward to better display the medals pinned across his breast, but his shoulders remained slouched as though he were still reclining. It was a feat of spinal flexion that made Anton wonder how the man actually kept on his feet. His face was sour as he puffed on his pipe, his eyes and mouth heavily lined, and Anton spared a moment to feel a bit of sorrow for the bride who was anticipating this groom.

And then he opened his mouth, and Anton felt downright mournful for her.

“So, you are the lot sent along to keep me in line, hmm?” He smiled, but there was an edge of nastiness in the expression, like he was about to spit on them. “My imperial minder’s cadre of professional henchmen. Responsible for keeping me from offending the piddling, powerless aristocracy of the ridiculous Swiss village where I’ll be spending the rest of my miserable life, so help me God.” He glared at them through the haze, and Anton found himself grateful that he was too far back for those eyes to fix on him.

“Some of you I know. Some I’ve never met before, but I don’t particularly care to deal with _any_ of you, y’understand me? Lucerne is a rural pisspot and I won’t be told what I can and cannot say about it, not by anyone. If I want to tell my bride she stinks of cows and glistens like bluebell butter, I shall do so. I’ll be the ruler of her canton within the week, and that means that she, and all of you, shall answer to me. Lucerne is a long way from Paris.” Now his smile twisted into a grimace. “And you lot are with me for the long haul, so its best you learn now who your new master is. You answer to _me_ , not the emperor. He may have sent you here, but only I can send you back. I suggest you keep that admonition close.” He waved a hand at them. “Dismissed.”

Anton was more than happy to leave at that point, although a number of advisors were pressing in and trying to ingratiate themselves better with the Viscount, or make a point with him about the seriousness of his upcoming nuptials. He didn’t appear vulnerable to either tactic, and it was a lesson in casual insults, watching the other passengers cast themselves upon the rocks of the Viscount’s disdain in an attempt to educate him. Anton nudged Camille, and nodded toward the door. _Later,_ the other man mouthed, and so Anton left alone. As soon as he made it back into the dining car, he shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Are you well, sir?”

Anton jumped a bit as he took in the Train Master at his side, carrying an entire tray of champagne flutes. “Oh yes, quite! Yes.”

“Is there anything I can get for you?”

“No, not at all. You look quite busy,” Anton added. “Don’t let me keep you, Monsieur Cassan.”

“If you’re sure…”

“Indeed.”

“Very well, then. Have a good night, Consul.” Cassan entered the lounge car with all the grace of a dancer, letting out a plume of smoke as he went, and Anton took the opportunity to make it back to his sleeping car before any more people decided it wasn’t worth it to try and ingratiate themselves with that atrociously-mannered blockhead.

Once he reached his room and shut the door behind him, Anton let himself relax for the first time in what felt like forever. How was it possible that he’d just boarded the train that afternoon? How was it possible that he’d only arrived in France yesterday, so full of hopeful vigor and confidence? How had he fallen into such inexplicable straits, and how on earth would he manage to maintain them all the way to his destination? Anton knew his own strengths, and protracted lying wasn’t one of them. He was to be Consul Hasler, he _had_ to be, but every interaction he had with someone under that guise made him cringe.

“You have made your bed,” Anton told himself firmly. There was no one to pass the blame to, no convenient scapegoat to lay the burden of his troubles on. “Now you must lie on it.” In only a few short days, they would be in Zürich. He would last.

Although he might not last for long if he didn’t get this coat cleaned. The smell was worsening. Anton shrugged out of the dark jacket, checked to make sure that his shirt didn’t show any blood, and pressed the button for the porter. It only took a minute for a man to arrive. He was taller than Anton, with dark, arresting eyes and a curiously inviting expression. “How may I assist you, sir?” he asked with a smile that spoke volumes.

If Anton hadn’t felt so ill from the lounge car, he might have investigated that smile a bit more. As it was, he felt almost ready to fall over. “I need this laundered and returned to me by tomorrow morning, if possible.”

“Certainly, sir.” He took the jacket, and didn’t even wrinkle his nose at the smell. A true gentleman. “Anything else?”

“Not for now, thank you.” Anton tipped him with some of Consul Hasler’s money, then shut the door again. One problem down. The others…well, those could wait until tomorrow. Except, perhaps, the matter of the palimpsest. It was probably best to keep that little book close, in case Camille decided his status as a lumière allowed him to rummage through Anton’s things. Anton pulled it out of his holdall, along with the loup that would make it legible, changed into a sleeping shirt, and dimmed the lantern. He settled into his bunk and began to work on the spell.

There ought to be a way to transcribe a visual language difference into one he could understand, the way the Device did. The first step was identifying the language, though. Or, perhaps he might get a clue from the drawings interspersed here and there. That was…a chemical equation of some sort. Not _alchemical_ , or at least not entirely, but the symbols were familiar. Lord, what Anton wouldn’t give for Caroline’s opinion right now.

There were more voices to be heard now in the hall, murmuring as people made their way back to their rooms. Anton’s vision blurred with fatigue, and after another minute of fruitlessly staring at the palimpsest, he set it back in his holdall, locked it with a spell, and turned out the lantern completely. He took a moment to clean his teeth and wash his face at the sink, enjoying the heat of the water, before he lay down again and resolutely shut his eyes. Anton was asleep in moments.

He didn’t wake up when Camille came in, but he did wake up in the middle of the night, his bladder urging him to action. _Too much alcohol_ , Anton reflected as he slid from the top bunk, careful to land softly so as not to wake his companion. The dark lump that was Camille remained silent, and so Anton let himself out into the hall and walked down to the water closet at the end of the hall. He relieved himself, then went to rinse his hands, but the water that came out this time was icy cold.

“Hell,” Anton murmured, shaking his fingers out. He waited for it to warm up, but nothing happened. Perhaps they turned off the heating elements at night, to give the spells a chance to recharge. He would ask about it tomorrow.

He fell asleep again in no time, but the next time he woke it was to nothing as innocuous as a full bladder. Screams echoed throughout the train, screams that gained in force and were soon augmented with the cries and exclamations of many others.

“What the devil?” The compartment was just light enough from the sun that Anton could see that Camille was gone. Just as he got to his feet, however, the man himself entered the car. He was only partially dressed, and the look on his face was grim.

“I need you,” he said, and this was not Camille speaking now; this was Lord Lumière. “There’s been a murder.”

Anton blinked dumbly. “A what?” he asked, not at all sure he was hearing things correctly.

“A _murder_ ,” Lord Lumière repeated. “Get dressed immediately. You need to be fast to get an accurate reading of a death miasma, do you not?”

“A…a what?”

Lord Lumière sighed deeply. “Are you always this slow in the mornings, or is this a particularly bad day for you? Look at me.” He stepped directly in front of Anton and looked him in the eyes. It was a strange feeling, being in the focal point of such an amorphous individual. Anton briefly felt like if he looked away, he might not be shocked to find that nothing else around him was clear any longer. “There has been a murder. Thus far I have been able to keep the curious masses away from the body, but the longer I’m parted from the scene, the less my influence can hold them back. I need you to get dressed, _Consul Hasler_ , and accompany me to the body, where you will attempt to deduce any and all information you can from the man’s death miasma. Is that clear?”

_A murder_. It was almost too much to believe. Anton had just seen a man murdered yesterday; what were the odds of such a thing happening again, in so short a span? “Consul Hasler was not a specialist in death miasmas,” Anton said, finally reaching for his day clothes and beginning to change. Under less extreme circumstances he might have been a bit shy about changing in front of Camille, but his brain was still working to catch up to his body.

“His specialty was in weaponry, which will still apply here. Moreover, his resume was indistinct, and no one else here should have a working knowledge of it anyway.” Camille was very clearly barely holding himself back from pacing. As soon as Anton’s shirt was buttoned, he handed over his black jacket. “This was hanging up outside the car.”

That had been returned by the porter much faster than Anton had anticipated. He hastily threw it on, gathered up his hat and holdall, and then looked at Camille. He was very aware that his hair was still in disarray, his face was stubbled and his eyes still at half-mast from being woken so abruptly. “Will I do?”

Camille’s expression changed to something softer than Anton had seen on him yet. He reached out and turned the collar of Anton’s jacket down, so it no longer touched the bottoms of his ears. “You’ll do,” he agreed. “Now, we must hurry.”

Forcing a path through the throng of people lining the halls should have been nearly impossible, but for such an invisible man, Lord Lumière was frightfully good with his elbows. He pushed his way through the crowd and Anton followed close like a duckling, clutching his holdall to his chest as they went. They passed through the sleep cars, through the dining car, and to the lounge. Several people waited outside the door that connected the lounge car to the suite beyond it: the Viscount’s personal servants, both of them appearing stunned and upset; Monsieur Cassan, the trainmaster; and a small gaggle of black-jacketed advisors, none of them looking satisfied.

“See here, Lumière,” Consul Olivier—naturally it would be him, Anton couldn’t escape him for a bloody moment—huffed. “You can’t expect us to stand around out here twiddling our damn fingers with the Viscount’s body cooling within! We should be working to _solve_ this, man, not wasting time waiting for you to fetch a blooming thaumaturge. I intend no offense of course,” he added in an aside to Anton, “but—”

“You will do exactly as I tell you, sir.” Lord Lumière’s voice was so cold Anton felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. “Otherwise I shall have to charge you with interfering in the emperor’s affairs. Such a thing could be construed as treason.”

Consul Olivier’s broad face went red with anger. “My lord _,_ you _cannot_ —”

But Lord Lumière was already ignoring him, turning back to Anton and speaking in a low voice. “How long do you need with the body?”

Anton stared at him blankly. “The _Viscount_ is the one who’s dead?”

“Isn’t that obvious? How long, Consul?”

Anton fought the urge to slap himself to wake up a bit faster. “Um, a quarter of an hour, perhaps. The spell is fairly easy to cast, but it needs time to permeate the room.”

“May I observe any of the proceedings?”

“The end, if you wish it,” Anton agreed. “Once the spell is cast and extended, I have a brief window in which to activate the observational component of it. I could call you back in for that.”

“Please do so.” He took a key from Monsieur Cassan’s unresisting hand and opened the door. It was dark inside. “And please,” he said softly. “Do not disturb the corpse.”

_Don’t tell me how to do my job_ , Anton almost snapped, but he held his tongue and entered the room. The door shut behind him, and Anton was left alone with the body of Viscount Bonaparte.

It was almost too dark to set up his equipment, but fortunately one of the drapes had been pulled slightly apart, letting in a sliver of sunshine. Anton began by removing his pewter stand and the silver censing bowl that it was made to cradle, setting them up in the corner of the train car. The train was still moving; he felt the rumble of tracks beneath his knees as he set up his equipment, but the motion was dulled by thick, lush carpeting. The viscount lay a few feet away, sprawled out flat on his face, his head closer to the door than his bare feet. Anton could smell the blood in the air, and winced. He wasn’t at all fond of fresh corpses, although they were much easier to get a telling miasma from.

Anton pulled the mix of herbs, spices and slivers of shaved metal that accompanied a spell like this from his holdall and went to work. He had retained his silver wand through the mugging, thank goodness—silver was as neutral a metal as one could use in cases of discovering death miasmas. For any work actually touching the body, gold was a far better conductor, but Anton had been forced to give up his gold wand when it became apparent that his muggers wouldn’t be satisfied with nothing.

He shook his head slightly, trying to push the sound of his attacker’s voices from his head. He had work to do. Work to focus on. His life might depend on how well he performed right now. Anton pulled out his chalk and drew a series of interlocking symbols on the floor around the stand, signaling his alchemical intent. He prepared the match, conjured up the appropriate spell in his head, and spoke it aloud. The match flared brightly, lit by power, and Anton quickly lowered it to the herbal mixture before it could flame out. It caught, and smoke began to rise. Anton removed a fresh paper fan from his holdall and waved it gently, spreading the smoke through the room. As it moved, it began to coalesce around the body. Anton watched as it became vaguely recognizable, began to move, and then—

Curious. He turned and rapped gently on the door. It opened a crack. “Are you ready, Consul?” Lord Lumière asked.

“Come in. Slowly,” Anton emphasized. “Don’t open the door any further than you must.” Lord Lumière slid inside, still perfectly oblivious to the huffs and queries behind him, and shut the door. “Watch,” Anton instructed as his companion came to a stop beside him.

The smoke had been slightly disturbed by the draft from the door, but the image was still quite obvious. The gauzy grey figure emerged from the bed, walked to the center of the room, bent over, and then abruptly collapsed. Curls of smoke crept across the floor, mimicking the living blood escaping from the body, expanding into a broad pool before suddenly the image reset.

“Fascinating,” Camille remarked quietly. “I’ve never seen a death miasma appear in such detail before. You know your trade, Anton.”

The approbation of a man Anton hardly knew shouldn’t have felt so good, but nevertheless, his shoulders straightened some at the praise. “Thank you. It’s rather strange though, isn’t it?”

“It is, for many reasons. What is your observation in particular?”

“Just that…the smoke should have shown signs of any living thing in the room at the moment of death, even those not directly connected to the viscount. The psychic shock usually leaves an image behind, although it would be much fainter. But there is no one else, and he didn’t die of a heart attack, clearly.”

“Clearly.” They watched the smoky figure go through the motions again, and again, until after a few more minutes it dissipated into nothing. Anton exhaled heavily, feeling the spell drawing away some of his reserves as it fell apart, then bent his head and prepared to clean up.

The pressure of Camille’s hand on his shoulder startled him, and he looked up in confusion, ready to ask what else was needed. The words died in his throat as their eyes met, Anton struck dumb once again, but this time from surprise rather than fatigue. “Thank you,” Camille said, and Anton let himself lean into the weight of Camille’s hand as he nodded.

The moment ended when Camille straightened up, strode over to the nearest window and threw open the drapes. Anton winced at the sudden influx of sunlight into the room, then forgot all about cleaning away his equipment as Lord Lumière pulled a measuring string from his pocket.

He stood over the body, taking note of the position it lay in. He stretched his string out over the blood stain, examined path from the viscount must have taken, even stared hard at the velvet slippers at the foot of the bed. “Odd.”

“What is odd?” Anton asked, finally remembering to move. He tipped the ashes out of the bowl into a tiny linen bag, tied it shut and stowed it inside the holdall, then wiped the silver bowl off and set it inside as well. He’d clean it properly when he got back to their car.

“Everything here is odd, but some things do stand out. You say there is no sign of the murderer.”

“No.” Anton was sure about that. “They would have appeared in some way within the miasma, unless,” he let himself chuckle a bit, “unless there was nothing for the spell to detect within them, but no thaumaturge has yet discovered a way to shield someone’s living soul.”

Lord Lumière shook his head in irritation. “There’s no need to get outlandish,” he chided. “But the viscount was shot, straight through the heart. You yourself saw the blood spread across the floor.”

“Yes.”

“Then we have a number of apparent oddities in this room. One is the viscount’s manner of death, and how it was achieved from outside the room. Another,” and now he caught Anton’s gaze again, “is what happened to most of his blood. There isn’t nearly enough staining the carpet to account for it.”

Ah, yes. Anton looked over at the pool and realized that the smoke had spread much farther than that. “What else?” he asked.

“Many things, which we shall begin to discover from the crowd in the lounge. Come.” He offered Anton a hand and pulled him to his feet. “It’s time to begin the trickiest part of any investigation: discovering who knows what, and whether or not they’re lying.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

The lounge room was appropriated for the sake of interviews. It irritated the other consuls to no end, but Monsieur Cassan had been more than willing to give them the space. The man was clearly shocked, but doing his best not to let on to the rest of his passengers. He assembled the group in the dining car that morning and explained, in as few words as possible, the “vile and nefarious act that had occurred on his train,” and that, in accordance with the will of the Emperor’s investigator, they would not be stopping on their way to Lucerne, so as to preserve the scene of the crime as best they could.

It went unsaid, but understood, that as long as the train was moving, it would be difficult for the perpetrator to escape. For a limited time, Camille could be assured that the killer was among the group of people on board. If a stop were allowed, that would change. It was, he said, too great a risk.

“But I must leave once we reach Zürich!” Anton had quietly but fervently protested over the disconcerted murmur of the other passengers.

“Then you had better hope we catch the killer in the next forty-eight hours,” Camille had replied with perfect unconcern. “More like thirty-six now, actually.”

“This wasn’t part of our deal! You never said I would have to—”

“I said you would have to play your role to the hilt,” Camille interrupted, his voice soft but intense. “I said you would have to bear the responsibility of your actions no matter what course they took. You chose to come aboard this train in the duplicitous manner than you did, and now you will continue with that task until I have no further use of you, or I will make your life far more difficult than missing your stop in Zürich ever could. Is that understood?”

It wasn’t the first time Lord Lumière had reminded Anton of his part to play in this charade, but it was the first time it had sent a chill down Anton’s spine. This man, who he had so recently felt a degree of amity and understanding with, had no true concern for Anton’s affairs. He was working in his official capacity, and if that meant throwing Anton beneath the wheels of the very train they rode, then he would do so without a word of apology. It was a frightening realization, and Anton turned his face away as he fought to control the fear. He had been far too afraid far too often, lately.

“Consul Hasler.” Lord Lumière’s hand was suddenly on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Look at me.”

“I would rather not.” The other man would read too much from his face.

“ _Anton_.” He spoke with quiet fervency. “I believe it can be done. We can discover the murderer and his associates before it’s too late, but I can’t do it without your help. You have already proven invaluable to this investigation, and I do not take that lightly. Hold on for me, just a few hours more.”

It was stupid to feel reassured by the same man who had had him quaking in his shoes a moment earlier, but Anton did. Lord, he was such a soft touch. “Fine.” He squared his shoulders and set his jaw. “Let’s get on with this.”

“Good man.”

The first thing to do, and the most pressing, was interviewing the people closest to the crime. The first screams had come from one of Viscount Bonaparte’s two personal servants, one of them a young woman currently so pale she would put milk to shame. She wore a royal blue smock and apron, both cut shorter than was usual, and her hair was in a state of utter disarray. She accepted the cup of tea that Camille pressed upon her when she sat down, but she didn’t actually raise it to her lips, instead cradling the heat of it in her hands.

“Your name?”

“Yvette.”

“And your surname?” Camille prompted.

“Oh, yes.” She gave a fluttering little laugh, but there was no heart to it. “Orlande. Yvette Orlande.”

“How long have you been employed by the viscount?”

“Nearly a year now.” Her lips pressed tight together, and she kept her eyes firmly on the floor.

“During that time, can you recall any person or people who offered him violence? Any arguments, any personal disputes?”

“No, sir.”

“Truly?”

“It isn’t my place to remember such things,” she said. “I exist to serve the viscount.”

_Rather unique wording._ Anton found himself frowning, but he held his tongue and let Camille keep going.

“Of course,” Camille agreed. “Very appropriate of you. Tell me about what happened this morning. The order of events as you remember them.”

“I was…I was sleeping,” Yvette began, her eyebrows scrunching a bit.

“In the viscount’s room?” Camille interrupted.

Finally color began to come back into Yvette’s face, a heated, shamed blush. “Sir…”

“I have no interest in passing judgment on your arrangement with the viscount, whatever it was,” Camille assured her. “But do not let conventional propriety hold back the truth.”

“Not…not in the viscount’s room,” she whispered. “Not last night. Usually, yes, he likes us to be in with him, but not last night. I woke up, though, and it was simply…habit to check on him. When I saw him lying there on the floor, I just—I didn’t know what to do.” She finally turned her wide, pained eyes on both of them. “What should I have done?”

“I cannot say.” Camille’s voice was gentle, but his eyes were not. “Thank you for your candor, Yvette. Send in your partner, if you please.”

“Yes, of course.” She got up and left the room, and Anton immediately turned to Camille.

“She is hiding something.”

“She is hiding, or rather, _attempting_ to hide a good many things. But now isn’t the time to discuss them.” He tilted his head meaningfully toward the door, where a young man about Yvette’s age was entering. Anton subsided and let Camille continue the interviews.

The questions for Yvette’s counterpart were largely the same, but his—Bernard Orlande’s—reactions were far less demure. “I’ve been with him for nearly as long as Yvette,” he snapped. “We’re married.”

_Well, that explained the names,_ Anton thought.

“And did you observe any incidents of argument or violence between the viscount and anyone else during that time?” Camille went on, unperturbed by the man’s tone.

“Only every other night.” Bernard had the same thin, elegantly wan appearance of his wife, but rather more fire, especially now that his employer was wrapped up in sheets repurposed as shrouds and laid in the train’s freezer compartment. Camille had overseen the wrapping himself, but hadn’t yet shared any more of his observations with Anton. “It won’t surprise anyone to know that my lord made enemies far easier than friends. Even the emperor wanted to get rid of him, and they’re first cousins; why else would he be ordered to marry in Lucerne? He was being pushed aside and he knew it. My lord did not appreciate that.”

“He had enemies among his fellow aristocrats?”

“Every one of his breaths held insults, every sigh was shaped to scorn. Who could love such a hateful man?”

“You speak very strongly about the man who was your employer.” Anton’s voice held no censure, but Bernard narrowed his eyes regardless.

“Lord Lumière, I will be the first to confess that my heart never held any love for him. He held a geis over my wife that enforced her loyalty to him, and by marrying her, I shared it.”

Anton frowned. Such things were hedge-magic at best, once common if crude means of enforcing the loyalty of one’s serfs, but they had gone out of fashion in the Middle Ages. Too much sacrifice was required, and after a few hideous royal incidents that resulted in hundreds of deaths, the practice had been banned in Britain. Anton had thought that wisdom would hold true through the entire civilized world, but apparently the French were rather more rustic and bloodthirsty than he’d thought.

“And why would a free young man do such a thing?” Camille asked.

“Because there is only so much suffering I could bear to see before I had to act. A geis shared is a burden halved, and it was due to run its course in another year. Then we would have been free of him.”

“I see. Thank you for your time, Monsieur Orlande.” Camille extended his hand, and after a moment, Bernard shook it. “If you would send in Monsieur Cassan on your way out,” Camille added.

“I…that’s all?” Bernard seems a bit flustered. Anton felt rather the same. “You’ve no more questions for me?”

“Well, don’t go leaping from the train, but no. Not at the moment.” He left, and Anton turned incredulously to Camille.

“No more questions? He practically bragged about how much he despised the viscount!”

Camille shrugged. “True, but as he said, any number of people despised the man.”

“But not all of those people had such a means or motive to kill him!”

Camille looked curiously at Anton. “You think he could have fought the geis?”

“I don’t even know the boundaries of it. How am I to know whether or not it would have precluded physical harm?” Anton demanded.

“That’s a standard feature in them.”

It felt like his mind was lost at sea, all his certainty packed onto an island that was rapidly disappearing into the distance. “How are such barbaric things so common?”

“They are not common,” Camille countered. “Nor were they ever. But they do stem from a certain class, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. That class of people is quite careful with themselves: clauses against causing harm are almost always a part of a geis.”

“So then he couldn’t have done it?”

“I didn’t say that,” Camille murmured. “Ah, Monsieur Cassan. Please be seated.”

Anton hadn’t even noticed him entering the room. He straightened his back and clasped his hands attentively, but Cassan didn’t seem to mind, smiling apologetically at them both as he sat down.

“Forgive the delay, Lord Lumière. With things so amiss my presence has been required in too many places at once.”

“We will strive not to keep you for long,” Camille said. “Tell me of your evening, Monsieur, and your early morning. You are the train master, but I know that even you must sleep sometime.”

“True enough,” Cassan agreed. “Although last night was a bit irregular for me. I’m sure the Orlandes already told you of their altered circumstances last night.” He seemed a bit shame-faced. “I assure you, I wasn’t trying to foment discord in the viscount’s personal affairs. His lordship went to bed early, and the Orlandes seemed desperate for some time alone. I gave them my berth for the night.”

“I’m sure they appreciated it,” Camille said. Anton felt fortunate that nothing was required of him but silence, because he hadn’t seen this coming. “Which meant that you slept where?”

“In the laundry room, for a few hours. I don’t need as much sleep as most men.”

“That is at the back of the train,” Camille noted. “So you were nowhere near the viscount’s room this morning?”

“I was delivering laundry this morning, actually,” Cassan replied. “I see you got your jacket back, sir,” he added in an aside to Anton, who was startled into nodding like an idiot. “I had just finished and was heading up to the dining car to check on the state of breakfast when I heard Madame Orlande scream. I ran to meet her, I saw the state of the room and its poor inhabitant beyond, and I immediately locked it and sent for you.”

“The door was unlocked when you got there?”

“I…I left my personal keys with the Orlandes, so that they would be able to return to his lordship when he needed them.” Cassan sighed deeply. “I hung them on a hook just inside the door of my berth. It isn’t impossible to think that someone could have grabbed them without the Orlandes noticing. It was a careless action, and I fear that Viscount Bonaparte paid for my laxity with his life.”

Anton was going to give himself apoplexy if he held in his exclamations much longer. Camille had pity on him.

“That is all for now, Monsieur Cassan. Go and feed your passengers. I may call upon you again later.”

“At any time, day or night,” the trainmaster said graciously. He stood and removed himself from the room, and Anton turned to Camille full of theory.

The quick shake of Camille’s head forestalled Anton’s outburst. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s wrong.”

Anton frowned. “How could you possibly know what I’m thinking?”

“Because with your limited experience in such investigations, not to mention your particular skillset, your mind is naturally inclined in certain directions,” Camille said. “I can deduce what you’re thinking about this case by considering what I know of you and juxtaposing it with your facial expressions, which are far from well controlled, I must add.”

“I can’t believe that my face gives away so much,” Anton protested. “What am I thinking, then?”

“Something incorrect.”

“Then what _is_ correct?”

“It’s hard to know quite yet,” Camille mused. Anton was prepared to shout at him for being obtuse, but he went on. “I’ll need to see the body again, but for now, come back to the suite with me.”

“So you can tell me again everything that I’m missing, without telling me anything at all?” Anton asked sarcastically.

“So that I can tell you what _I_ observe, and you may determine whether or not you agree,” Camille replied as he pushed to his feet. It was a rather more genteel response than Anton had been expecting, honestly. Instructors of any kind, in nearly any situation, believed that the best way to make a lesson stick was to shout it into their students’ heads, and apply themselves as heartily to punishing failures as they did to ignoring successes. Or perhaps that was just Oxford, but either way, Anton was cautiously eager to learn what Camille had discovered.

They stood together just inside the door of the suite. The body was now resting in the train’s ice chest, but everything else was still there. The room was beginning to smell ripe, and Anton wrinkled his nose.

“You studied with a mortician, did you not?” Camille asked. “Surely you’ve seen plenty of death before.”

“None of it so immediate,” Anton said.

Camille kindly didn’t press, instead gesturing toward the too-small red puddle in the center of the carpet. “I begin with the body itself. You remember how it looked, yes?”

“Yes.” As if he could have forgotten over the space of a single hour.

“What did you remark about the viscount’s feet?”

“His feet?” Anton thought back. They had seemed like perfectly ordinary feet to him. “They were…”

“Bare,” Camille provided when Anton stalled. “But he had slippers at the ready, at the foot of his bed.”

That seemed sensible enough. “Why is that relevant?”

“It’s a matter of positioning.” Camille waved a hand as if dismissing it. “Now consider the manner of the viscount’s death. I deem him to have been killed by a gunshot.”

“As do I.”

“But there was no psychic sign of the killer within the room,” Camille continued. “So. Where would an assailant have to be in order to murder the viscount without being in the room?”

Anton felt a bit like a child, but he answered gamely. “Outside the door.”

“Possible, although there would be the issue of noise from the gunshot. Where else?”

“Um…through one of the windows, perhaps?”

“Perhaps. None of them are open, but that’s hardly material,” Camille agreed. “But if either of those options are the case, then the evidence doesn’t add up. The body proved that.”

“The body?” Anton thought about the position of Viscount Bonaparte again, the way he had lain flat-faced against the ground. He thought about the way the death miasma had shown him jerk, just as he was bending over for his…his…

“Wait.” Anton moved a bit further into the room and looked straight down at the carpet. There was nothing amiss with it but the blood. He glanced over at the slippers at the foot of the massive bed, then down again. “It’s not possible.”

“What isn’t?” Camille asked.

“He could not have been shot from below. There’s no way!”

“Or so it appears.” Camille joined Anton at the edge of the carpet. “At first, at least.” He bent over and picked up the corner of the rug, then threw it back. Only a triangle of floor was revealed, but it was enough to see the neat, splintered hole in the wooden floor. There was also a great deal more blood smeared across the smooth oak boards.

Anton gaped from the hole to Camille, who looked mildly satisfied. “So. There is the trajectory of our murder weapon.”

“No.”

“Why do you persist in doubting it?”

“Because there are too many variables that would have to fall into place for such a thing to occur!” Anton insisted. “Apart from magically moving a rug beneath the viscount _after_ he had already died, there is the issue of where such a shot could have been delivered from, and what sort of shooter could possibly have the prescience to know where to fire, much less _when_ , so that the shot corresponded perfectly with the viscount reaching for his slippers!” Anton threw his hands up in the air. “I’m the thaumaturge, and I know of no spell that would accomplish all of these things at once.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t just one spell.” Camille crouched down and stared at the bullet hole, rubbing one hand thoughtfully over his chin. The train’s pace was smooth despite the angle of their climb, as they’d entered the mountains last night, but Anton was tempted to move a bit closer, just in case they jolted and Camille needed someone to lean against in order to hold his position. “But you’re correct about the timing. One would need to be a very special sort of shooter—or at least, have a very special weapon—in order to make a shot like that.”

Anton felt suddenly chilled. “You would need to be armed,” he said slowly, “with a gun that didn’t miss. A gun that guaranteed a kill whenever it was fired.”

“That would be a very dangerous and very masterful spell,” Camille agreed. “And where have you encountered a weapon like this before?”

The chill gave way to a feeling of nausea that made Anton shut his eyes for a moment. “Oh lord. The knife that Hasler attacked me with.”

“The knife that would have killed you if it hadn’t killed him.” There was more than a hint of compassion in Camille’s voice, and Anton mentally clung to it. “If such a spell actually exists, and was laid upon the knife, then it could be that the same spell was set upon the gun that was used against Viscount Bonaparte.”

“It seems likely.” And Hasler’s thaumaturgical expertise had been in enhancing weaponry. “But…but that doesn’t explain how the gun could have been fired through the floor!”

Camille nodded. “I have enquiries to make with the rest of the staff concerning the working of this train, as well as many people who need their curiosity quelled. Perhaps you could attempt a spell of magical resonance with the knife.”

Magical resonance…oh, why hadn’t Anton thought of that? He began to nod, then halted, frozen. “How did you know I kept the knife?”

Camille’s smile was slightly mocking. “A magical knife of unknown abilities that dispatched its owner and creator for you? You’d have to have no sense of curiosity whatsoever to toss something like that in the nearest rubbish pile. Not to mention, it wouldn’t be a responsible way to dispose of something that could effectively make its’ wielder invincible if they always struck first.”

“Of course.”

“If you would test for resonance, it might help us find the gun.” Camille shrugged slightly. “Or the gun might have been thrown out of a window and the distance will be too great for a resonance field to be of any use. Nevertheless, I would appreciate you trying it.”

A spell. Anton mentally reviewed his available equipment. “I’ll do that.” He turned to head back to their room, but stopped when he felt one of Camille’s hands press against his calf. Anton’s breath caught in his throat.

“Do remember to leave it sheathed,” Camille said softly. “It’s conceivable that such a blade won’t be satisfied being on display without taking a life.”

“I will take every precaution,” Anton replied, a trifle stiffly, but it was hard to keep his cool while he took comfort in the kind touch.

“Thank you.” He let go, and Anton headed back to their car.

Getting there was like beating his way through a bloody gauntlet. Consuls and courtiers pressed in on him from all sides, demanding answers. Anton blithely turned their attention back to Lord Lumière, who had reentered the lounge car shortly after Anton. He bore the shouts and inquiries with cool aplomb, and Anton practically ran the narrow hallway to their sleeping car. Locking it shut was a true relief.

He wanted to take a moment to breathe. He wanted a moment to _eat_ , even; his headache was coming back with a vengeance, and that was entirely due to being denied his morning tea and toast and eggs, but there was no time to ring for a plate. Every second counted now, and a resonance spell could grow stronger over time if it was cast right. Anton needed this to be over before Zürich; he would accept nothing else.

All right, then. A resonance spell. With mundane objects, this was a simple task: you laid out a set of seeking glyphs around the item at hand, tested its thaumaturgical vibrations, and set it to search a similar resonance. Then you carried the object around and watched it for responsiveness.

Anton pulled the ingredients methodically out of his bag, saving the sheathed knife for last. He made a face as he set it in the center of the floor, and immediately began inscribing the seeking glyphs around it. He surrounded those with several atypical sigils for protection, just in case. There was no need for the brazier this time; Anton lit a simple beeswax candle, spoke the words for seeking, then laid a line of wax along the side of the knife. He took a deep breath, then blew out the candle.

It was like sounding a gong inside his head. Anton gritted his teeth at the vicious strength of the response; lord, it was a good thing he’d laid in the extra protection sigils, otherwise he might have lost consciousness. And now he would have to carry the bloody thing around with him. Delightful.

The ringing subsided to nothing after another moment, which…could mean anything, really. Resonance spells were still woefully non-specific, as far as Anton was concerned. The gun might be five feet away, or fifty miles. Perhaps he and Camille were drawing a connection where none existed, and there would never be an answering resonance.

Anton wasn’t willing to bet on that, though.


	6. Chapter 6

Anton had just finished downing a glass of water and was considering calling the porter to see about having a meal brought to him when Camille returned. A faint smiled curled his moustache upward, and there was an air about him that could only be dubbed ‘satisfied.’ Anton waited for him to close the door before interrogating him. “You look like a cat that got the cream. What did you find out?”

“Did you know,” Camille drawled as he took off his hat and set it on his bunk, “that the water used to supply our rooms comes from tanks set beneath the train?”

“Yes, Monsieur Cassan said as much when he welcomed us aboard.”

“And did you also know that there is a service ladder that passes alongside them, so that they may be reached and worked on more effectively?”

“That…makes sense…”

“And might I add,” Camille went on, his smile growing a bit wider, “that all of the tanks are connected? So that if, say, the train is heading downhill, the water within the tanks surges to the front of the train, leaving some of the rear tanks less full. Likewise, as we ascend, the tanks in the front of the train would empty, if there was not sufficient water within to keep them replete.” He tilted his head slightly, pinning Anton with a heavy-lidded stare that might have seemed lustful, had the subject matter been otherwise. “We entered the foothills late last night. We’re ascending steadily now, and when I tested the faucets in the Viscount’s private bath, they barely ran at all. The tank beneath his suite is likely less half full.”

“Are you…wait.” Anton shut his eyes for a moment, breathing away the tension in his shoulders and considering the issue at hand. Camille was leading him, teasing him with answers, but he could discover them on his own. “You think that Viscount Bonaparte was shot from below.”

“It’s the most logical conclusion from his death miasma.”

“Which means you think that his attacker had to be beneath his car. Actually _within_ the water tank, which would be all right, since there was apparently room to breathe.”

“Each tank has a maintenance hatch in the top of it, large enough for a limber person to enter.” Camille’s smile dimmed a bit. “But I haven’t yet determined how whoever it was withstood the heat of the water within the tank. From what I understand, the spell keeping it warm is powered by the steam engine, so as long as the train is moving, the water must be hot. Almost boiling hot.”

The sense memory snapped into place in Anton’s mind, the wince that came from unrelentingly chill water on his hands. “But it wasn’t hot last night,” he said. “I remember, I had to relieve myself and the water from the taps…it was cold. It stayed cold.”

“Interesting.” Camille sat down across from Anton in one of the little sitting room chairs. He looked slightly odd, folding his long body into it, but he didn’t seem to care about the spectacle he made. “How, do you think, would a person manage that?”

“The easiest way would be shutting down the heating elements of the central spell, but that would be permanent unless you were the thaumaturge who wrought it in the first place. Seeing as we have hot water today, the next best thing would be a temporary glyph drawn on the tank itself. It would have to be big, and it wouldn’t last for long, but…” Anton thought the problem through a bit more. “If it were in chalk, you might have, oh, five minutes? Wax would be a bit better, but on a hot tank I wouldn’t risk it.”

Camille’s smile was back in full force. Anton, so unused of late to obvious approbation, basked in it. “Well-reasoned,” he said. “The next thing to do, then, is to confirm that this is the case.” He stood up and put his hat back on, then held a hand out to Anton. “Are you ready to do a bit of climbing?”

Anton almost reflexively took the hand before his brain caught him with him. “Climb―wait, you want to―”

“Of course. We can’t waste any time.”

“But the train is still moving! And there’s actual _snow_ on the ground outside now.” Spring hadn’t yet caught up to this part of France.

“Then it will be bracing. Come now.” Camille wiggled his fingers and Anton rolled his eyes, then accepted the hand up. Even with the assistance, his head spun a bit as he got to his feet.

Camille frowned. “Are you unwell?”

“Just hungry.” Anton managed a smile. “I’ll go gallivanting beneath the train with you, but after that we’re ordering something to eat.”

“Understandable.” Camille stared at Anton in silence for a long moment, before Anton realized he was still gripping the man’s hand.

“My apologies,” he muttered, feeling an unflattering blush spread across his cheeks. “We should go.”

“We should, yes.” Camille didn’t hurry, though, continuing his perusal of Anton’s discomfort until it had gone beyond the bounds of simple rudeness into something that might, possibly, be fascination. But that was ridiculous, and Anton was starving.

“Shall we, then?”

“Yes.”

The passengers knew better than to push and pull at them now as they moved, although several of the other consuls, including Olivier, shot them dark looks. As they reached the front of the train, Camille led Anton down the little hall that led to the engineer’s booth. “The only way to access the ladder that leads to the bottom of the train is through the booth,” he explained as they squeezed up to the front. The air was colder here, evidence of less insulation, and the noise of the engine was far louder. “That is where the shooter must have descended as well, unless he or she is capable of some remarkable feats of acrobatics.”

“Which is possible, with the right spells,” Anton said.

“Possible, but rather a lot of work to go to when the easiest thing is to use the mechanical device provided. If spell work was used, then it could have been used to trick the engineer into not seeing them.”

“Or he might be in collusion with the killer,” Anton offered.

“Not something we can overlook, but I’ve spoken to the man, and his apprentice, and they both seem genuinely astonished by the turn of events.” Camille shrugged slightly, then rapped on the door to the engineer’s booth. It opened a moment later, revealing a slight young man, hardly older than a boy, in the baggy striped uniform of a train’s conductor. “H’lo, Lordship,” he said, bobbing a little bow as he got out of the way. “Da, Lordship’s back!”

“Good, good.” The actual conductor in charge of the train was only a few inches taller than his son, and brown from the sun that shined through the glass at the front of the booth. “The faster you find what you’re looking for, the faster you gents can be out of my booth, beggin’ your pardon, Lord,” he said briskly. “It’s a mite cramped up here for two—four’d lead to bloodshed in minutes.”

Camille smiled, unoffended. “We won’t be long, sir. If you could open the trapdoor for us?”

“Aye, course.” Rather than reaching down and picking up a panel, though, he pressed down on a pedal. Anton heard something clang, but he couldn’t see it. “You’ll want to head out the left door here,” the man continued. “Hold onto the rail nice an’ tight, and if you need help, call for Bert.” He ruffled his son’s hair. The lad jerked his head back, but he was smiling. “Be careful, sirs.”

“We shall be.” Camille set his hat aside again, and indicated that Anton should do the same. “Come on then.”

Anton tried to keep the astonishment off his face, but he knew he hadn’t succeeded well enough, the way Bert was softly snickering at him. He steeled himself and followed Camille out of the booth, and immediately grabbed onto the polished brass rail with both hands. Bloody hell, it was _cold_ out here. Camille was already rounding the front of the train, stepping carefully down to the nose of the machine, where a neat round hold that Anton hadn’t even realized was there had suddenly appeared.

“Why is this out here?” Anton demanded, shouting over the noise of the wind as he picked his way along the rail.

“Space considerations—the luxury is for the passengers, not the workers,” Camille shouted back as he levered himself through the hole feet-first. “Do hurry up. I need your eyes on this.” Then he was gone, leaving Anton dangling against the side of the train in the wind by himself. He glanced back up at the little booth, where Bert waved cheerfully as soon as he saw him looking.

“Ridiculous,” Anton grumbled, but he followed suit. There was indeed a ladder beneath the train, less something to climb along though, more something to scoot his back against as he slowly made his way. The noise from the engine was deafening, the heat of burning fuel and steam from the water tank a strange dichotomy to the cold he felt on the side that wasn’t closest to them. He made his way laboriously, carefully, and by the time he got to Camille, who had politely made room for him ten feet back, he was more than done with the whole endeavor.

“Any sign of a glyph or sigil?” Anton asked as he cast his eyes along the side of the main water tank. The dark, linked contraptions extended down as far as his eye could see, but this was the largest by far.

“Not that I can tell,” Camille replied. “But it might be that I’m looking with the wrong sort of eyes.”

_Wrong sort of…oh._ It was one of the earliest things a thaumaturge learned, and one of the few which didn’t take any sort of equipment: aura detection. The ability to see something magical, even if it wasn’t evident to the naked eye. Anton relaxed his jaw, took a deep breath, and let his eyes wander. Nothing seemed to stand out at first, but as he got slightly further into his trance, he realized—

“There.” He pointed. “Black chalk, it’s hard to see against the dirt. It’s been imbued with something that diminishes its aura as well, but I can make it out. A freezing glyph.” Large and powerful and rather sloppy.

“Freezing? Wouldn’t that result in no water at all?”

“Not from chalk,” Anton replied. “It can’t contain the power well enough. It would chill things off, but the heat would return almost as quickly as it left.”

“Interesting.” Camille nodded once. “Give me a moment to confirm.” He vanished further down the ladder, and Anton took the opportunity to close his eyes. His headache was coming back, getting worse. He needed food, and tea, and a few minutes to catch his breath. He’d be lucky if he didn’t tip over into a migraine at this point.

He didn’t even notice Camille’s reappearance until the man was beside him, their bodies pressed together. Camille looked at him tensely, but only said, “We had better get back inside.” He helped Anton along, steadying him when necessary, until they were both upright at the front of the train again.

God, the headache was _excruciating_. It was all Anton could do to hold on. Camille’s long fingers closed over his on the rail, keeping his grip firm. “Come on,” he murmured. “Just a little bit further, come on.” They shuffled along the train together, but by the time they got to the door Anton felt like his head was going to split in two. Which was―not from a headache. It was the resonance spell, which meant…

He put it together almost too late. Anton jerked his eyes toward the far door, the entrance to the booth, which was open just a crack. The muzzle of a gun protruded into the space, and neither Bert nor his father had seen it. It swiveled toward him and Camille, and Anton reacted violently, ramming his shoulder into Camille so hard they both almost fell from their precarious perch, trying to get them out of the doorway and the sites of that deadly weapon.

_BANG._

For a moment, Anton was sure he would fall from the train. He let go of the rail as he clutched at his head, helpless to resist the action as his pain reached a crushing crescendo. He actually felt himself fade back, a moment of near-weightlessness taking him as his body arced into the wind.

An iron grip fastened onto the front of his frock coat, grasping and hauling him forward inexorably. Anton leaned into Camille’s chest and tried to clear his eyes of the stars that floated across them. The worst of the pain was dissipating now—the shooter, or at least the gun itself, was moving away. Anton was still alive, and unhurt. And Camille seemed to be as well, which meant—

“Who?” Anton croaked, mouth unaccountably dry. “Who was shot?”

Camille’s face was hard, but his arm around Anton was surprisingly gentle. Strong, but not crushing now that he was no longer in imminent danger. “The conductor,” he said, his tone grim. “It was a ricochet. We have to get inside, now.”

Anton didn’t want to reenter the train. He didn’t want to see young Bert kneeling next to his father’s body, crying as blood seeped through the knees of his overalls. He didn’t want to see Monsieur Cassan appear in the door, horror stopping him in his tracks before he rushed forward to put an arm around the lad’s shoulder. He didn’t want to see the corpse of a man who had spoken to him not ten minutes ago, head split from the force of the bullet that had penetrated it.

Anton didn’t have a choice, though. He saw all these things as if in a daze, not quite able to listen as Camille spoke to Cassan, and then to Bert, before pulling Anton into the tiny hall that led to the rest of the cars. He ensconced them not in the lounge car, but in the Viscount’s former, palatial car, closing the door firmly behind them. He sat Anton down on the edge of the bed, then moved to the small beverage cart against the wall, still well-stocked.

“Drink.” Anton stared blankly at the glass. “It’s only water,” Camille added gently. “Nothing to blur your mind, I promise.”

“I wouldn’t mind a bit of blurring,” Anton admitted, but he took the glass and managed to hold onto the heavy crystal. The water was lukewarm, but entirely welcome to his parched palate. He drained it, then another as Camille refilled the glass from a silver pitcher. The third he was able to nurse a bit, and he turned wide eyes to Camille. “I didn’t know that would happen.”

“Of course you didn’t.”

“I didn’t want him to die. I just wanted to keep _you_ from being shot.”

“Anton, none of this is your fault.” Camille tipped his chin up to look him in the eyes. “You do realize that, don’t you?”

“I had a headache,” he confessed. “It got worse and worse, and I thought it was hunger but it was the resonance spell. If I had realized sooner, I could have—warned you, warned him, _something_ —”

“You didn’t make whoever it was pull the trigger,” Camille said. “Nor could you have prevented him from doing it with a simple warning. There was nowhere to retreat to from there, not unless we descended beneath the train again, and we didn’t have the time for that. You could not have stopped someone from dying in there.” Camille took a deep breath. “You did, however, likely keep _me_ from dying. For that you have my deepest gratitude.”

“Well.” Anton tried to smile, but he couldn’t quite make his lips shape one. “You returned the favor when you prevented me from falling to my death, so I believe we should consider ourselves even.” Looking into Camille’s face now, so close and concerned, it seemed unbelievable that he had ever found it…nondescript. It was the most vivid, most real thing he had ever seen. He leaned forward as though caught in a whirlpool, unable and unwilling to escape. Camille didn’t move, let him draw close, closer—

_Knock knock_.

“That would be the meal I requested,” Camille murmured. “You need to eat.” He stood up before Anton could protest, went to the door and opened it. The dark-haired porter who had cleaned Anton’s suit was waiting, tray in hand. Camille plucked it from him with quiet thanks, and then shut the door again.

Anton’s stomach twisted a bit at the smell of food. “I don’t know that I can eat right now.”

“A simple breakfast,” Camille promised as he set the tray down. “Just a croissant with jam and some strong tea. Without it I fear you’ll topple over in moments.” He uncovered the food and filled the blue china cup, then placed it on a saucer and handed it to Anton. “Try, please.”

“And what will you do while I prevent myself from fainting?” Anton asked a bit acidly before he took his first sip. It was a strong blend, very bracing. He added a bit of milk.

“I will think on the matter of who might want to kill you.”

Anton instantly shook his head. “That gun was aimed at _you_ , not me! I’m a simple thaumaturge; I’m completely immaterial to this situation!”

“ _You_ , as you really are, might be,” Camille agreed. “But the man you’re impersonating likely wasn’t. Given the similarities between the knife and the gun, it’s logical to think that Consul Hasler had one or more connections here on the train. If someone has realized that you aren’t who you purport to be, they may take that quite personally.

“Moreover, murdering a lumière carries the stiffest of judicial penalties, even beyond those associated with killing a member of the nobility. We are the eyes and arms of the emperor, his tools for justice among the populace. If I were to be killed here, everyone aboard this train would suffer the emperor’s questioning. Whereas your death would merely result in a minor outcry, followed by the revelation that you were an imposter, and possibly involved in the original murder. Your death would be hard to explain, but very convenient if a scapegoat were needed.”

Anton stared at Camille, who looked right back at him, undisturbed. “Do eat the croissant.”

If Anton’s stomach hadn’t growled audibly at that moment, he would have ignored Camille on principle. He wasn’t a child who needed every action overseen, but he _was_ beginning to recover his sense of hunger. He reached out and took a bite of the croissant, and had to close his eyes for a moment. Flaky, with a rich, buttery taste offset by the tart sweetness of the jam. It was just a croissant, but in that moment it was the first meal of a man who had narrowly escaped death only minutes ago. It tasted _divine._

“Good,” Camille said, and Anton wasn’t sure why until he realized the croissant was gone, nothing but scattered crumbs across the dark velvet of his jacket marking its existence. He had practically inhaled it. There was a second one, and Anton took it without prompting this time.

Camille continued. “What we need to do next is identify the gunman.”

“But, wait,” Anton interjected. “If the conductor is dead, who is driving the train? Surely not his son—”

“Bert is far too perturbed at the moment to take over his duties,” Camille agreed. “No, Monsieur Cassan has a basic ability there. He said he took it upon himself to learn how to step in for any member of his staff, including the engineer. He will continue us on our way.”

“The consuls will demand we stop.” It was only reasonable. “After a second murder? They won’t want to continue, and with the conductor dead—”

“They will demand it, and I will refuse them,” Camille said. “But I need more information in order to tell them that without having to fight an angry mob of crows. We need to locate the gunman, or failing that, the gun itself. Can you find it?”

Anton sighed. “It would be a far easier task if it were being held. You understand that resonance spells need to have something to resonate _against_ , yes? Most spells, even those engraved in metal, are fundamentally weak things. It isn’t until they’re being used that they gain power. If I were to unsheathe the knife I carry, and then lock it away in a box and shove it to the back of a wardrobe, the spells imbuing it would be practically inert. The resonation between the knife and gun while both were being carried, however, was nearly incapacitating. I am a strong thaumaturge, but spells requiring a…a gentler touch have never been my forte.” Caroline had chided him for his inability in that arena for years, eventually beating success into him through the twin mechanisms of challenge and encouragement, but she had a far defter hand.

“Nevertheless,” Camille said. Just that, and that was enough.

“Yes, I will look for it.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

Anton calculated the radius of the resonating spell as he walked slowly down the train. It was primarily an exercise in keeping his mind occupied, and not dwelling on the fact that with every step he took, he felt more―vulnerable? No, that word was too soft, and not one he wished to lay claim to. He would rather say he felt less at ease being on his own now than he had before he’d been nearly murdered. Yes, that had a better ring to it. Regardless, every step took him farther from Camille, and despite still believing in the possibility that Camille had been the target of the attack, Anton had to admit he felt less secure being separated from the man.

He had the air of authority that seemed natural to so many aristocrats, those born and bred to be obeyed. It wasn’t suffused with the same effortless condescension that the vast majority of them had, though. Anton wondered whether the “lord” part of Camille’s title was more than simply ceremonial.

Anton bit the inside of his cheek. He needed to focus, focus… The radius was likely two to four meters. No more than that. The headache truly had been part hunger, part spell, so Anton would have to be fairly close to the murderer before he could identify them.

Happily, no one stopped him on his slow meander down the train. The vast majority of the passengers had been herded into the lounge car, to be dealt with by Camille, and nothing about any of them had resonated with Anton as he passed along their outskirts. Someone had to be missing, though, and Anton was determined to discover who. Carefully, of course. Very carefully.

He reached Sleeping Car Four, and would have continued along his path had he not discovered that his and Camille’s compartment door was open a crack. Anton’s head felt fine—no resonance disturbed him, but the voice he could hear muttering to itself from within the room did. He drew closer and listened quietly.

“No tackle, no rod, no reel,” the man—the pitch was too low to be anything but a man—said in a tone of dismay. “No tackle, no rod, no reel. No tackle, no rod…” A moment later there was a _snap_ , followed by a guttural “ _Bloody_ hell!” and the sound of the faucet running. Ah. The man had sprung the trap on Anton’s holdall. The water wouldn’t do him any good—it might feel like his hand was burning, but the trap was actually based on a nettle-like reaction. His skin was swelling even now, and the pain would endure for at least a day. It was far from lethal, but it would lesson any would-be thief.

Anton drew a little closer, so that he might attempt to glance through the crack in the door. He didn’t desire a confrontation―far from it―but at least whoever was in his room right now wasn’t armed with a magical killing machine. A little closer…a _little_ closer…he was about to lean in when suddenly, the door at the end of the hall opened. The familiar handsome face of the porter emerged, and as soon as he saw Anton, he spoke up.

“Is there any trouble with your room, sir?”

“Ah.” Anton heard the faucet abruptly turn off. “No. None at all. Everything is fine, thank you. I mean, well, as fine as it can be, considering,” he demurred.

“It’s a terrible business, isn’t it, sir?” The porter shook his head as he drew closer. “The death of the viscount, that terrible business with the engineer. Are you holding up all right? May I bring you a drink?”

 “That won’t be necessary. It is terrible, but I’m bearing up well.”

“Are you sure?” Up close, the porter’s coquettish smile was slightly marred by a missing tooth, but he was still an undeniably handsome man. “If a drink isn’t to your fancy, perhaps a bit of private consolation would be more welcome. Your bunk mate will be busy for some time yet, I imagine.”

“I am sure he will, but I have no desire for company at this time.” _Especially not when an intruder into my privacy is eavesdropping as we speak!_

“As you wish, sir. The offer does stand, however.” The porter glanced at his door. “Is it sticking?”

“No, thank you, it’s…I was just about to go inside.” Perhaps the man within had found a decent hiding place, and Anton could enter and exit in short order.

“Very well, then. I’ll leave you to your work.” The porter moved slowly down the hall, glancing curiously back at Anton more than once. There was no help for it. He had to go in. Anton took a breath, opened the door all the way, and stepped inside the small room.

Consul Olivier stared at him in consternation.

“Oh, hell,” Anton whispered. He shut the door behind him, not taking his eyes off the consul. “Sir, what are you doing here?”

“I—I might ask you the same thing!” Olivier blustered, his florid face redder than usual, glistening with nervous sweat. “No tackle.” His voice was grim. “No rod. No reel. You are not the real Consul Hasler, are you? The man I corresponded with would not travel across town without his fishing gear, much less take on an assignment in an entirely new country! You, sir, are an imposter!”

Anton opened his mouth to say, _The real man didn’t have any bloody tackle, rod or reel either!_ but knew that such an outburst wouldn’t help his cause. He cleared his throat. “I am a thaumaturge in the employ of Lord Lumière. The deception was necessary.” It was true, in the very strictest sense of the word. “The man you knew as Consul Hasler was not who you thought.”

“Why did you come on board this train?” Olivier thrust one swollen, ruddy finger at Anton. “If Hasler isn’t who you’re after, then why did you come here? What did you expect to find? You could not have known such things would occur—the murder of a viscount? Incredible nonsense! You must have been after something else. What was it?” He drew closer, his face contorted with fear. “Is it the Dévoué? Because I have nothing to do with them, I swear! Was Hasler one of them? I did not know when I got him this position. I would never pander to their cause!”

“What are you talking about?” Anton demanded, rubbing his fingers along his temple. “Who are the Dévoué?” Odd, that the translation device didn’t work on that word. It had to sense somehow that it was a proper noun, a name rather than a description.

Consul Olivier narrowed his eyes. “How can you not know, if you work for a lumière? What kind of assistant to the emperor’s intelligence officer doesn’t know of such things?”

“I have only been—” The strain Anton felt within his head made sudden, horrifying sense. He turned and slammed the lock closed on the compartment door, then dragged the chair in front of the handle. It quivered a moment later. Anton drew back against the far wall, the pain spiking as he craned his neck around the room, looking for anything that might get him and Olivier out of this. It was too late to cast a spell; he didn’t have enough time to prepare something defensive. The knife would not help him through a door, but the gun’s wielder could shoot him dead without even trying. The only option that remained was…

“The roof.” Anton picked up the nearest heavy object, the pewter pitcher beside the sink, and slammed it into the window. The first blow only cracked the glass, but on the second strike the window shattered, and Olivier actually jumped.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“You must come with me,” Anton said as he stepped carefully up onto the sink. Cold wind blew through the room, setting the drapes swirling. Anton gazed longingly at his holdall, but knew bringing it would only slow him down. He maneuvered himself through the window, wincing as a jagged glass edge sliced into his thigh. “Come if you want to live!” he insisted when Olivier had yet to move to follow him.

“You’re mad,” Olivier murmured, staring at Anton like he’d lost his mind. Behind them, the doorknob rattled again. “Mad! Why would I follow you outside?”

“Because the man beyond the door wishes to kill me!”

“So? I’m not you! _You_ aren’t even you, you imposter! Perhaps I should inform him of that!” Olivier turned and strutted over to the door, heaving on the chair.

“Don’t!”

Olivier turned to glare at him. “You—” The _bang_ of a gunshot ended his brief denouncement, a gory hole appearing square between his eyes. The killing bullet lodged in the wooden frame next to Anton’s head.

“Oh God.” Anton knew he needed to move―his very life depended on it―but for a moment the corpse of this garrulous, briefly-known acquaintance held him transfixed. He hadn’t actually seen the knife kill the original Hasler, not graphically. He hadn’t seen the bullet destroy the engineer’s face, hadn’t even looked at the bloody aftermath for longer than a telling glance. This? It was almost impossible to look away from. Brains oozed like sludge from the crater between Olivier’s eyes, which seemed to look at him accusatorily.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, before straightening up and groping for the ledge on the roof of the train. There, _there_ —the thin bronze railing that had seemed so bright and decorative in Paris might now save his life. As he pulled himself onto the roof, he heard the door in his room splinter apart. His assailant could now see that he’d gotten the wrong man. He could see how Anton had escaped.

Anton had to run.

Such a thing was easier said than done. The wind on the roof hit him like a sheet of ice shattering against his body.

The train traveled higher into the mountains, the last vestiges of spring vanishing beneath the chill of freshly-descending snow. The flakes had just begun to fall, but Anton felt every one of them on his overheated skin. He struggled to his feet, then immediately lurched back down to hands and knees as the train started a turn. He could barely hear his own frantic breaths over the sound of the wheels on the tracks, but every hammering pulse of his heart rang through his body like a warning: _run, run, run_.

Anton began to crawl down the top of the train. It was gently convex, making it a little harder to balance on, but he wouldn’t have to stay up there long. He just needed to get far enough along to drop down between this car and the next, and get back inside. He would find Camille, and then they would…something. It didn’t matter. Camille would know what to do.

Anton glanced back and blanched when he saw a pair of hands grasp the rail. He forced himself upright and made his way to the end of the roof, looked down at the slender ladder on the side of the hall that connected this car and the next, and found the door it connected to―already open? A pale, frightened face stared up at him for a moment before the door slammed resolutely shut. Even over all the noise, Anton could hear the solid _clack_ of the lock being pushed into place.

What was Madame Orlande _doing_ down there?

Anton didn’t have time to indulge in the sudden realization of her complicity. Clearly he wasn’t going to get in through this door. The train had stabilized some: he took a step back, then jumped from the top of Sleeping Car Four onto Sleeping Car Three. He had to make it farther forward before Madame Orlande could cut off all his avenues of escape.

“You! Stop!”

Anton glanced back and immediately wished he hadn’t. His would-be assassin was there—the porter, of _course_ , who else could have known where Anton had just been? He held the gun that never missed in one hand, pointed squarely at Anton’s chest. It was a strange thing, small but broad in his hand. Why hadn’t he simply fired yet?

“Give me the book,” he demanded.

“The…book?” Under the guise of steadying himself, Anton inched backward. “What book?”

“The book you stole from the real Hasler! It wasn’t in the holdall.”

“What?” Anton was actually distracted from his own mortality for a moment by sheer surprise. He hadn’t moved the palimpsest.

“It wasn’t on that _buffoon_ either,” the porter snarled. “Tell me where you left it and I’ll leave your corpse pretty enough to still be recognizable to your family.”

In a split-second decision, Anton decided to play along. Hopefully his assailant hadn’t noticed his gaffe a moment ago. “You want the book?” He patted his pocket. “You’ll have to come and get it. Shoot me now,” he added quickly, “and my body will fall from the train before you can catch it! You’ll lose everything!”

The porter didn’t speak again. He just began running forward.

Anton’s body finally seemed to find its feet. He ran, veering a bit as he slipped on the wet surface of the roof, but he made it to the next car, and the next, without further incident. He didn’t dare look behind him—he couldn’t spare the time. He had to make it to the engineer’s booth. Madame Orlande surely wouldn’t get that far, and even if the door was shut, Anton had options once he got there. He could go beneath the train, find a place to seclude himself and wait for help. Camille would be looking for him. He would be—

A crushing weight slammed into his back, knocking him down onto his face. He was still two cars away from the engineer’s booth, but the porter had caught up to him. He hadn’t been fast enough.

Panic gave Anton the strength to roll over, extending his arms to keep the porter away. The man’s handsome face was contorted with anger, one hand holding the gun menacingly while the other reached for Anton, pawing at the front of his jacket. “Give it to me!”

“Get _off_!” Anton brought his legs up and kicked at the porter, who fell back a bit. Only once he was out of reach did Anton realize his mistake. The porter was too far away to get a hold on—too far away for Anton to keep him from pulling the trigger.

“I’ll take it from you once you’re dead, then.” He leveled the gun at Anton’s head. Anton’s mouth flooded with the taste of copper, his entire body thrumming with helpless energy. He was going to die; he was going to die for _nothing—_

_Bang!_ The gun went off just as the train lurched into a screaming, laborious halt. The porter flew back, and the bullet went down into the car beneath them instead of straight into Anton’s brain. Anton felt his lungs start working again, a fresh fire stoked inside his chest. He threw himself at his assailant, desperate to get his hands on the gun. He needed to get the gun away from the porter, to throw it from the train. They grappled fiercely, Anton drawing on reserves he didn’t realize he had. It didn’t seem like they would be enough, though. The porter was taller, stronger—Anton was outmatched. The gun slowly came to bear between them, the muzzle coming closer and closer to the space beneath Anton’s ribs. Oh God, no, he couldn’t end like this. This couldn’t be it.

Anton barely registered the brief pressure at the base of his spine. The feel of a hand was there and gone, and a moment later the porter’s mouth lost its sneer, lips going slack. His fierce eyes slowly went blank, and his relentless grip on the gun released. A long-fingered hand retrieved it before it fell.

Anton rolled over onto his back and stared at Camille, dumbfounded. “You…you…”

Camille took one of Anton’s hands and wrapped it tightly around the rail. “Hold on,” he directed. “I must secure the body.” He did so quickly, tying the porter to the roof with his own shredded jacket. The knife still protruded from the man’s back, the black of its handle gleaming in a way that seemed almost satisfied. Anton watched in a daze.

“Now you must climb down.”

“I don’t…” Anton shook his head. “I don’t know if my legs work right now.”

“They, and you, have no choice. Come. We need to get you inside.” Camille wrapped one arm around Anton’s waist and helped him scoot on his read toward the front of the car. It was undignified but effective, and within five minutes Anton was off the roof and back inside the train, this time in the lounge car. People gasped, and several women screamed. Anton had no idea how he looked, but his appearance had to be rather ghastly.

“Stay here.” Camille pressed him back into a chair. “I will return in a moment.” He left, and Anton had to bite his lip to keep from calling him back.

“He must be off to arrest another of them,” one of the consuls remarked.

Anton cleared his throat. “An…another who?”

“Another of the Dévoué, of course!” The man pointed toward the far end of the car. There was a body there, a small, slim body—Madame Orlande. The porter’s shot must have found its home inside of her. Beside her, his arms bound behind his back, her husband Bernard wept piteously.

Good God. What had _happened_ while Anton had been running for his life?

 


	8. Chapter 8

The train had come to a stop. Irate, fearful voices resonated across the chilled mountain canyon as the passengers worked themselves into a near-frenzy. Numerous people accosted Anton, demanding that he tell them what he know, what was going on, who was responsible, _what was happening?_ He lacked the strength to take to his feet and defend himself, and so he shrouded his consciousness in silence instead, an active meditation that all apprentice thaumaturges had to learn before they could be trusted to work spells. Focus was key. He needed to focus on the task at hand, which was…

Death. So much death. First the real Consul Hasler, then Viscount Bonaparte. The innocent engineer, the garrulous Consul Olivier. The porter. Madame Orlande. So much death…had it really been only two days since this infernal journey began? It seemed a lifetime. Unfortunately, lifetimes were uncomfortably abbreviated of late.

Someone was standing in front of him, yelling. The noise filtered through Anton’s ears like they were filled with woolen fluff, vague and burbling. He barely even felt the hand that cracked across his face, turning his head sharply.

The voice that sounded next cut through the haze of Anton’s meditation like a knife. “Lay another hand on my thaumaturge, Monsieur, and I will charge you with interfering in the Emperor’s justice and drag you from the back of this train all the way to Zürich. Am I clear?”

“He…” The man faltered for a moment. “He was just sitting there like a lump, ignoring me! I was the Viscount’s closest friend, you know, and I am entitled to know the truth. I will—”

“You will do nothing.” Camille’s voice commanded obedience. “You will stand there like the small, unimportant wastrel that you are and listen to me spoon-feed you all the truth you can stomach. You will listen without speaking, without _moving_ , and I will tell you what I wish and release you on my own time. Do you understand me?”

“I…yes, Lord Lumière. Of course.”

“Better, if barely.” Camille knelt down in front of Anton and placed a cool hand on his sore cheek. “Are you well?” he murmured.

“No,” Anton replied. “But I will manage.”

“It is for just a bit longer, I promise you.”

The concern in his voice was atypical, and worrying. _Keep your wits about you, idiot,_ Anton told himself. He dredged up a smile from somewhere. “I shall be fine. And I’m interested in learning all that you discovered as well.”

“Hmm.” Camille straightened and removed his hand, but to Anton’s relief he didn’t leave again, merely turned to face the crowd. “You have ten seconds to silence yourselves,” he announced to the room at large. It was quiet in five.

“Many of you are wondering about the murder of Viscount Bonaparte, and the other deaths that have occurred on this train.” Camille spoke sonorously, standing tall and imposing, impossible to look away from. “Here is what I may tell you at this time. The Viscount was killed by a porter, Monsieur Jacques Lafayette, who was a member of the group you may know as the Dévoué. He was aided in his task by Monsieur and Madame Orlande, the Viscount’s personal servants. Over the course of discovering this information, my assistant and I―” his hand touched Anton’s shoulder, who tried not to lean too heavily into it “―were attacked several times by Monsieur Lafayette. He killed the engineer of this train, as well as Consul Laurence Olivier, in his efforts to get to us.” Anton shivered at the memory of Olivier’s wound, and Camille’s hand tightened.

“I am pleased to inform you that Monsieur Lafayette is now deceased, and all others involved in the crimes have been either apprehended or become victims of their own poor decisions. We shall be continuing on to Zürich without delay, where local law enforcement will take over the prisoners and messages of our predicament shall be sent back to Paris. Your fates lie in the hands of the Emperor now. Return to your sleeping cars and await further instruction. It’s quite likely you’ll be there for the remainder of the journey, so I suggest you stop in the dining car on the way.”

“Preposterous,” one woman exclaimed. “You can’t expect us to hide like rats in our holes while there are murderers gadding about! Monsieur Orlande is still alive, is he not? Let me interrogate him. I will discover if there are any more of the Dévoué aboard this train.” She brandished a parasol menacingly. Anton was oddly reminded of Caroline for a moment, and nearly laughed.

“Madame, I can assure you, no efforts will be spared.” Camille’s voice was colder than the blowing snow outside. “Now I must insist: return to your sleeping cars, or I will put you there myself.”

“I am _not_ afraid of you,” she insisted, but everyone else was already heading toward the back of the train. The woman _hmmph_ ed, but eventually followed them.

Anton wondered how long he had spent in a trance. “Where is Monsieur Orlande?” he asked once they were alone.

“Locked in the broom closet. I’m not worried about him becoming a threat, Anton. He is a broken man after the death of his wife. I’m not even entirely sure he knew she was Dévoué.”

“I keep meaning to ask, what are the—wait!” Anton shot to his feet, then almost fell over as an intense rush of dizziness swept over him. “The palimpsest! It’s missing from my holdall, it—look, I didn’t tell you,” and oh, did he ever regret that now, “but Consul Hasler had a book with him, a palimpsest. It’s some sort of spell book, and the porter wanted it. He searched my room for it but couldn’t find it. I said I had it with me but I didn’t, and I don’t know how someone could have broken through my—” His voice petered out as Camille reached into a breast pocket and emerged with the slim volume.

“How—how did you—”

“It was only logical,” Camille said calmly. “Consul Hasler was the architect of the magic infusing both the gun and the knife; of course he would have the spell’s blueprints with him.”

“But how did you _get_ to it?” Anton asked. “You said you can’t do magic! How did you manage to avoid my failsafes?”

“Anton—”

“ _How?_ ”

“Magic has no effect on me.”

Anton laughed. He couldn’t help it―stress after stress had piled upon him so deeply that he was to the point of hysteria, and it was more of an effort than it should have been to rein in his unsavory mirth. “That—that’s not possible,” he said once he’d caught his breath. “Everyone is affected by magic. It’s the basis for all religious ceremonies, it touches us with every blessing, it is both faith and fact. If you have a soul, magic has an effect on you.”

“That is true.”

Anton stared at Camille in silence for a long moment, taking in the unhappy curve of his mouth almost hidden beneath his moustache, and the fresh lines of tension radiating from the sides of his eyes. “You… _how_?” he breathed incredulously. “I’ve only ever heard of such things as the result of a curse on the mother, or, or the result of making a deal with the devil, or...”

“The condition can stem from such dramatic origins, or, as in my case, it simply occurs with no explanation.” Camille seemed to relax a bit, perhaps because Anton had yet to decry him to all and sundry as an abomination. “The discrepancy was noticed at my baptism, of course. The cause was investigated most thoroughly, but nothing could be pinned down. My mother was, and is, a very good woman. My father had the power to prevent the Church from excommunicating me as an infant, but I could never be introduced into high society, not if there was any chance of keeping my condition quiet. I was educated privately, and eventually was recruited into the ranks of the emperor’s lumières. It was thought that an investigator who was immune to the effects of magic would be quite useful under the right circumstances, and they were correct.”

He shrugged minutely. “It does make certain things harder, but I’ve been rather fortunate lately in the company I keep.” His voice was warm, but his expression was still forbidding. “If you wish to have done with me, that’s understandable, but I ask that you contain yourself until I can leave you safe in Zürich.”

“You’re still taking me to Zürich?”

“I have no reason to keep you from disembarking there. Anton—”

“You can see magic, though. You saw the smoke recreate the Viscount’s death scene.”

Camille looked a bit confused. “Yes? Although that was highly indirect. You could say that I saw the results of the spell, but not the spell itself.”

“And you were unaffected by my failsafes, but your presence hasn’t prevented or interfered with my own thaumaturgy,” Anton persisted. “Why hasn’t this been studied further? What if you contain a partial soul, or a different aspect of the Holy Spirit? This is fascinating!”

Camille’s shoulders relaxed. “I’m relieved to hear it.”

“You must tell me more.”

“I would be pleased to, but for now, we must go to the engineer’s cabin.”

“Why?”

“Because,” and now his voice had gone stern again. “I have to arrest Monsieur Cassan.”

“Arrest Monsieur Cassan…but―” Anton was dumbfounded. “Why? He’s been nothing but helpful to you.”

“He has been helpful, in his own very particular way,” Camille agreed, but maintaining his serious mien. “He was most helpful in arranging things so that this train would serve as a conduit to bringing Consul Hasler and his palimpsest into contact with someone who was obviously prepared to use it, our former porter Monsieur Lafayette. He was quite helpful at ensuring that there were myriad dead ends and red herrings concerning the viscount’s death, very skillful at taking a bit of blame upon himself to muddy the waters. He knew that Viscount Bonaparte was going to be murdered on this train. Whether he is a member of the Dévoué or not remains to be seen, but my bet is that he is, and as more than a foot soldier.”

“Surely most of this is just conjecture,” Anton protested. “It could all be explained by pure coincidence.”

“There is rarely such a thing as pure, unadulterated coincidence that results in murder.” Camille shook his head. “Of course, I knew that coming in to this, but I can understand why you are reluctant to believe me at this point.”

Anton felt his jaw drop. “What do you mean, you _knew_ that coming in to this? You knew there was going to be a murder?”

“Indeed. More to the point, I knew it was going to be the Viscount.”

“But―but he was a Bonaparte! A member of the Emperor’s own family! Why didn’t you act to stop the killing before it happened?”

To Anton’s surprise, Camille smiled. The expression was surprisingly soft. “You are a gentle soul, aren’t you? What other man in possession of a knife that _always_ kills its target wouldn’t even think to draw it while fighting for his life? My dear Anton, the Emperor has more family members snapping at his heels and fighting each other for scraps of the Empire than he cares to deal with. This particular specimen was one of the worst. The Duchess of Lucerne is a dear friend of the Emperor’s eldest daughter. He would never marry her off to such a sluggard.”

Anton blamed the fact that he was possibly still in a state of shock on the slowness of his comprehension. That, and the fact that it seemed like the details of this case had been ripped from the nearest newspaper adventure serial, too far-flung to possibly be true. Yet this was happening, and it was happening in _his life_. “The Emperor sent him to die.”

“He sacrificed a pawn who reached too high to discover information about a far more sinister threat to his peace of mind,” Camille corrected. “The Dévoué are a fanatical sect hell-bent on breaking apart the Empire, and they will use any means in their power to accomplish it. Even―” he indicated the gun at his waist, “―engage in the worst sort of destructive thaumaturgy. Weapons that never miss? Imagine that spell set into countless cannon. How many people would die on the battlefield that might otherwise live?”

“It is horrible,” Anton agreed. “But I think it is equally horrible for someone, even one in the Emperor’s position, to deliberately send a man to his death simply to test out his conspiracy theory.”

“It is no theory. The Dévoué are fact, and they are growing in number every day. The Empire is headed for a confrontation of truly monumental proportions, Anton.” Camille sighed. “The days of peace and relative prosperity are numbered. It is only a matter of time before cantons begin to attempt to splinter away. War is coming to the continent, and the Emperor wishes to minimize the damage as best he can. The sacrifice of one despicable man in pursuit of that is scarcely a sacrifice at all.”

“But it wasn’t just one despicable man,” Anton said. “It was Consul Olivier, too. It was the engineer, whose poor son will grow up without a father. It was even a young woman who was clearly abused by the Viscount, and took what must have seemed like the only way out for herself and her husband. And Monsieur Lafayette, but he was rather more deserving than the others.”

Camille shook his head. “You speak with commendable compassion, Anton, but little sense of scale. The pursuit of justice is never a straight, clear path. Occasional sacrifices are made for the greater good. It is simply unavoidable. Now.” He straightened his hat. “We have a train master to apprehend.”

“Why not just shoot him?” Anton asked a little bitterly as he followed Camille down the slender hall to the engineer’s booth.

“Because he’s the architect of a larger scenario that I originally gave him credit for. I want to know who his underlings are, and more importantly, who his _masters_ are. You needn’t come with me if you don’t want to.”

“Oh no,” Anton declared. “I want to see this madness through.”

“So harsh,” Camille murmured, still maintaining a trace of humor despite the grim turn their conversation had taken.

That humor evaporated the moment they reached the engineer’s booth, and found Monsieur Cassan there, holding a gun to the head of young Bert, who looked terrified, tears running down his thin face. “Gentlemen,” Cassan said conversationally. “Do not take another step.”

Camille stopped, and Anton of a necessity came to a stop behind him. “How did you know we approached?”

“You think I don’t know my own train? I heard the squeak of your steps before you closed the door to the lounge room. I knew it was only a matter of time before you put things together, Lord Lumière.” He inclined his head. “You do your profession justice.”

“Appropriate, given that justice _is_ my profession.”

“Ah, no.” Cassan shook his head. “You follow a shadow master so removed from the ills of his supposed ‘people’ that he cannot even name their trials and tribulations, much less commiserate with them. We are too many to be contained under the aegis of one distant, careless man who pretends to be a god. We must go our own way, seize our own destinies. Separation is inevitable, both for the Empire and for us, right now.” He looked toward the slender door on the side of the booth. “If you let yourselves out, I can promise you that this train and its people will safely reach Zürich, and I shall take no further action against either of you. The boy shall also be set free once I’m safely away.”

Anton leaned back against the wall, one hand carefully reaching for the piece of chalk he kept in his pocket. It was quite challenging to mark a sigil into the wall without looking at what he was doing, but he and Caroline had forced themselves to practice it until they had perfected the art, after one particularly innovative professor had demanded that every student compose a spell in total darkness.

“Has Zürich always been your final destination?” Camille asked calmly, stepping slightly forward and holding Cassan’s attention. “Who are you meeting there? More of the Dévoué?”

“It is nothing to you now.” Cassan’s lips thinned as he smiled. “I suggest you and Consul ‘Hasler’ over there proceed directly, before my trigger finger slips. I may not wield a weapon that always kills, but I could hardly miss the boy’s head at point-blank range.”

Anton bit his lip. How to adapt this sigil on the fly…it was one of the simplest out there, special in that it could be made to work on nothing but will, extra paraphernalia not needed. But to force the energy forward, to make it strong enough to be sure he’d save the boy―it took the sort of analytical thinking that Caroline had always been better with on the fly. He made the outer ring thicker, just in case.

“This is your last chance,” Cassan said, pressing the muzzle of the gun righter to Bert’s head. “Leave now, or his blood is on your hands.”

Anton dropped the chalk and slapped his hand against the sigil. As he shouted the one-word incantation for _stop_ , Camille surged forward.

The spell wasn’t strong enough to actually make Cassan stop what he was doing, but it slowed his reaction time enough that Camille, unfettered by the magic, reached him before he pulled the trigger and knocked his gun out of the way before he jerked him back from Bert. In a moment, Camille had Cassan bent helplessly over the engineer’s control panel, and Anton was on the floor, seeing stars after the sudden expulsion of energy. The only sounds as the spell began to fade were Cassan’s violent shouts and his own panting, before Bert finally yelled at Cassan, “You fucking _blaireau!_ ”

Hmm. It looked like the Device didn’t have a completely thorough dictionary of swear words.

 


	9. Chapter 9

The train pulled into Zürich bright and early the next morning, expertly conducted by young Bert, whose grief and anger appeared to be held at bay by dint of sheer will at this point. Monsieur Cassan was bound and gagged, and the cohort of consuls and lesser nobility were duly cowed by Camille’s stern words. No one was allowed off the train while Camille fetched the local constabulary, and to Anton’s great surprise, everyone obeyed.

Anton himself kept away from the crowd. He had, as promised by Camille, arrived in Zürich on time. Once he was off the train, he would make his way to Master Grable’s office at the Universität Zürich, present his credentials, and take his first steps on the path that would lead to the future he had always wanted. Academia had been his goal from a young age: following in his father’s footsteps, splitting his time between research and teaching. He would become one of the greatest thaumaturgical engineers of his age.

Surprisingly, the prospect of a future secreted away in a laboratory had lost some of its luster over the past few days. Working alongside Camille, even though Anton had been coerced into doing so, had been…illuminating. _Which makes sense, given Camille’s occupation_ , Anton thought wryly as he set the lock on his holdall. He was coming out of this experience with a new appreciation for field work, at the very least. And it had been, well, _exciting_ at times―incredibly so, despite the danger. Or perhaps because of it. Anton had helped foil an attack against the crown. He had contributed to the discovery of a dangerous plot against the Empire. It gave him a sense of great satisfaction, to be so useful.

Then again, he couldn’t imagine enjoying any of the madness of the past few days without Camille. The lumière was no ordinary man, so it only made sense that working with him should be extraordinary. If it were possible to continue doing so…if Anton could somehow stay with him, continue to assist him in his work, and perhaps—perhaps—

No, it was foolish. He took a deep breath and hoisted his holdall off the bunk, then turned toward the door. He stepped forward just as it opened, and narrowly missed being knocked in the nose by the wooden edge.

“Ah,” Camille said as he stepped inside. “You are still here. I was hoping you would be.”

“I…yes. Really?” Anton asked, feeling both hopeful and foolish. “Why is that?”

“There are a few matters yet to be settled between us,” Camille said. Anton’s heart sank. That sounded serious.

“You did say that you wouldn’t press charges against me if I helped you,” he reminded Camille nervously. “And I did, quite spectacularly, I think.”

Camille shook his head. “I have no qualms over your services rendered, Anton. Rather, I want to ensure that you’re properly compensated for them.”

Anton frowned. “I thought not being thrown in jail was my compensation.”

“That,” Camille said, a slight smile gracing his lips, “was just the start. You were instrumental in unraveling this plot, and you deserve recognition for that. The first step in that is this.” He passed over a purse. Anton took it dumbly, feeling the heavy slide of metal coins within. “Payment for your efforts.”

Anton peeked inside, and then gaped. “This is…” It was more gold than he’d ever seen in once place before. “This is too much!”

“You nearly died several times over. What price would you put on your own life?” Camille asked. “Besides, you have equipment to replace, do you not?”

“I do not require charity.”

Camille arched one eyebrow. “I would never presume to give you any. This is, believe it or not, a very reasonable sum given the work you’ve done. Lumières cannot afford to be parsimonious in their pursuit of the truth.”

Anton wasn’t entirely sure he believed Camille, but on the other hand, he could hardly give back the money now without giving offense. Besides, it _would_ come in extremely handy. “Thank you,” he said.

“Don’t be so quick to thank me, I’m not finished. There is the matter of these weapons.” He patted his coat, where Anton could see the outline of the gun.

“You should keep those,” Anton said fervently. “I have absolutely no need for them, I wouldn’t know what to do with them, I’d probably just _bury_ them somewhere and say good riddance, and I know that would be—”

Camille’s hand on Anton’s shoulder stopped his babbling. “I have no intention of asking you to take them,” he assured Anton. “But there is still the matter of the spell that created them. Contained in this, I believe.” He withdrew the palimpsest from a pocket. “You were on your way to unraveling the code, were you not?”

Anton’s fingers literally _itched_ to touch the palimpsest. It was a magical puzzle, clever and exciting, and just the sort of thing he loved despite the fact that unraveling its mysteries would lead to a horrifying spell. Brilliant, but horrifying. “Yes,” he allowed after a moment.

“Then I feel that you should continue your work.” Camille passed the leather booklet to Anton; or rather, he tried to. Anton, despite his eagerness, balked at actually grasping it.

“But that’s important. It might be the only one of its kind,” he said. “You cannot leave it in the hands of a mere _student_. You must know dozens of thaumaturges who are better suited to revealing its contents.”

“But none I trust so well.” Anton stared at Camille, dumbfounded. “I am perfectly serious. This palimpsest contains a spell so powerful that I would rather not give it to anyone, honestly. I would prefer to burn it to ash, but it is possible that in understanding the spell, we can understand how to combat it. Perhaps there are other copies out there.” Camille shrugged. “Perhaps not. There is no way of knowing, and until we do, I would prefer not to discard our only source of information about it. I would have you translate it, deconstruct it, and discover how to work against it. Are you up to the task?”

“I—of course.” This time when Camille extended the slim volume, Anton took it. “But…you keep saying ‘we.’ I am not a lumière, though.”

“That is true,” Camille said. “But you are a clever, resourceful man whom I admire greatly, and with whom I would enjoy working again, should fate bring me back to Zürich. Are you amenable to me keeping in touch?”

“Absolutely! Yes!” Anton took a deep breath. “I mean, yes, of course. I will work out a translation for the book, I can…I guarantee I won’t fail you.”

Camille smiled. “I know you won’t.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “The authorities are due to arrive at any moment, and I must be on hand to meet them. There is only one thing remaining, then.” He stepped in a bit closer to Anton, raised his long-fingered hands to cup his face. “Do tell me if I’ve read this completely wrong,” he said quietly.

Anton didn’t wait for Camille to close the distance. He threw his arms around Camille and kissed him desperately, ecstatically, with all the pent-up longing and emotion that he’d been forced to sublimate since he stepped foot onto the train. Camille drew him deeper into the kiss, his mouth warm and soft beneath the bristles of his moustache, and Anton moaned.

Camille backed away far too soon, however. “Duty calls,” he muttered. “Damn it.”

_No, don’t go. Not yet._ “You cannot spare yourself another five minutes?”

“Not when there are bodies on ice,” Camille said regretfully. “But rest assured, my dear.” He reached up and straightened his hat. “You’ll see me again.”

“Soon,” Anton insisted. He felt positively aflame. It was the hardest thing in the world not to reach out and reel Camille in by the lapels, but he managed to hold back. “Say it will be soon.”

“Sooner than you think.” Camille leaned in and brushed their lips together one last time, then briefly shook Anton’s hand in a more formal farewell. “Good luck, Mr. Seiber.” He turned and left their sleeping cabin. Anton watched him go, then exhaled explosively.

Well, he was a trifle—incredibly—frustrated, but it could have been worse. The train, for all its horribleness, had gotten him to Zürich intact, on time, and with a connection he could scarce have imagined making back in England. He was here. His future was ready to begin.

And God and the emperor willing, Lord Camille Lumière would be a part of it.

 


End file.
